POETS  AND  POETEY 


OF 


THE   "WEST. 


THE 


POETS  AND  POETEY 


OF 


THE  WEST: 


WTTB 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES. 


BY 

WILLIAM    T.  COGGESHALL. 


Here  is  a  wreath 

With  many  an  unripe  blossom  garlanded, 
And  many  a  weed,  yet  mingled  with  some  flowers 
That  will  not  wither. 

SOUTHKV. 


NEW    YORK: 
FOLLETT,   FOSTER    &   CO.,   49   WALKER   STREET 

1804. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  I860, 

BY  WILLIAM  T.  COGGESIIALL, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District  of  Ohio. 


I 


TV  2 


PREFACE. 


THIS  volume  is  the  first  of  a  series  designed  to  present  a  survey  of  Western  Liter 
ature — to  make  known  who  have  been,  and  who  are  the  poets,  orators,  and  prose- 
writers  of  the  States*  which  comprise  what  is  properly  known,  in  American  history 
and  geography,  as  The  West ;  and  to  preserve,  in  a  form  convenient  for  reference, 
their  most  characteristic  productions. 

THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OP  THE  WEST  has  been  prepared  upon  a  plan 
contemplating  not  only  the  republication  of  poems  which  have  become  celebrated, 
but  a  fair  representation  of  what  may,  not  inappropriately,  be  considered  the  respect 
able  poetical  literature  of  the  great  Central  Valley  of  the  United  States.  It 
contains  selections,  with  biographical  notices,  from  the  writings  of  ninety-seven  men 
and  fifty-five  women,  of  whom  sixty  are,  or  at  the  time  of  their  decease  were, 
residents  of  Ohio ;  twenty-three  of  Indiana ;  fourteen  of  Kentucky ;  thirteen  of 
Illinois ;  five  of  Michigan ;  four  of  Wisconsin ;  three  of  Missouri ;  two  of  Iowa ; 
two  of  Minnesota ;  one  of  Kansas.  Among  these  poets,  sixty-nine  are  native  to  the 
geographical  division  of  the  American  Confederacy  in  which  their  fortunes  are  cast : 
to  Ohio,  thirty-nine  ;  to  Kentucky,  fifteen ;  to  Indiana,  thirteen ;  to  Michigan,  one ; 
to  Illinois,  one. 

The  others  belong,  by  birth,  as  follows  :  Fifteen  to  New  York,  twelve  to  Penn 
sylvania,  eight  to  Massachusetts,  eight  to  Connecticut,  seven  to  New  Hampshire,  four 
to  Maine,  four  to  Maryland,  three  to  Mississippi,  three  to  Tennessee,  three  to 
Vermont,  three  to  Virginia,  two  to  New  Jersey,  two  to  South  Carolina,  one  to 
Delaware,  one  to  Rhode  Island,  one  to  the  District  of  Columbia,  and  four  to  Great 
Britain.  The  nativity  of  three  is  unknown.  Of  the  one  hundred  and  fifty-two 
persons  whose  places  of  birth  and  residence  are  thus  analyzed,  only  twenty- nine  f 
are  known  to  be  deceased. 

*  Kentucky,  Ohio,  Indiana,  Missouri,  Michigan,  Illinois,  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  Minnesota,  Kansas. 

t  John  M.  Harney,  Thomas  Peirce,  Julia  L.  Dumont,  Micah  P.  Flint,  Charles  Hammond,  Wm.  R.  Schenck,  Louisa 
P.  Smith,  Elijah  P.  Lovejoy,  Otway  Curry,  Harvey  D.  Little,  James  II.  Perkins,  Hugh  Peters,  Thomas  II.  Shreve, 
Charles  A.  Jones,  Amelia  B.  Welby,  Edward  A.  M'Laughlin,  Laura  M.  Thurston,  Eleanor  P.  Lee,  Horace  S.  Minor, 
Enieline  H.  Johnson,  Mary  E.  Fee  Shannon,  Benjamin  T.  Cushing,  John  G.  Dunn,  George  Y.  Welboru,  Mary  Wilson 
Betts,  M.  Louisa  Chitwood,  John  T.  Swartz,  Harriet  M.  Howe,  Leuella  J.  B.  Ca:-e. 
(v) 

222593 


vi  PREFACE. 


Not  mi  ire  than  ten  of  the  writers  herein  represented  can  be  classed  as  literary 
mi  MI  and  women  in  that  sense  which  conveys  the  idea  of  the  pursuit  of  literature 
a<  a  profession.  The  poets  of  the  West  are,  or  have  been,  lawyers,  doctors,  teachers, 
preni-lHTN  mechanics,  tanners,  editors,  printers,  and  housekeepers.  They  have 
written  at  intervals  of  leisure,  snatched  from  engrossing  cares  and  exacting  duties. 
Their  literary  labors,  consequently  desultory,  have  rarely  been  given  to  elaborate 
performances,  but  rather  to  the  emotion,  the  impulse,  or  the  passion  of  the  hour; 
and  yet  it  may  be  justly  claimed  that  this  volume  presents  a  collection  of  poems, 
remarkable  fur  variety  of  topics  and  versatility  of  treatment,  exhibiting  in  a  greater 
degree  the  feeling  than  the  art  of  poetry,  but  preserving  some  specimens  of  descrip 
tive  and  some  of  lyric  verse,  which  are  likely  to  keep  the  memories  of  their  authors 
irn-.-ii  tor  many  generations  yet  to  come. 

In  poetry  breathing  an  earnest  spirit  of  moral  and  political  reform;  expressing  just 
appreciation  of  material  beauty;  revealing  domestic  affections;  representing  noble 
a-jiiratioiis  for  intrinsic  worth  and  force,  the  West  is  rich;  but  in  humorous  poems 
(except  by  way  of  parody)  and  in  the  more  pretending  styles,  which  are  wrought 
by  elaborate  culture,  it  is  far  from  opulent.  The  reasons  are  obvious.  The  earliest 
poem  of  the  West  was  written  in  1789.  The  regular  chronological  order  of  this 
volume  comprises  a  period  of  only  forty  years — a  period  significant  for  perilous  wars, 
for  hard  work,  for  amazing  enterprise ;  all  of  which  furnish  materials  for  literature, 
but,  until  the  mellowing  influences  of  time  have  long  hung  over  their  history,  repel 
poetry. 

It  has  been  the  intention  of  the  Editor  to  include  in  this  collection  every  person, 
legitimately  belonging  to  the  West,  who  has  gained  recognition  as  a  writer  of 
reputable  verse.  He  doubts  not  some  have  been  omitted  more  worthy  than 
some  who  are  presented ;  but  all  coming  within  the  standard  established,  of  whom 
«ati>factory  information  could  be  obtained,  have  been  recorded.  Facts  calculated  to 
make  the  volume  nearer  just,  and  nearer  complete  than  it  now  is,  will  be  gratefully 
received.  The  Editor  trusts  that  a  large  number  of  fugitive  poems  peculiar  to  the 
We-t.  which  he  found  it  impossible  to  collect,  will  hereafter  be  brought  together. 

For  the  measure  of  completeness  with  which  the  Editor  has  been  enabled  to 
discharge  the  duties  he  assumed,  he  is  greatly  indebted,  for  wise  counsel  as  well  as 
valuable  assistance,  to  literary  gentlemen  in  all  parts  of  the  West ;  among  whom 
special  acknowledgments  are  due  John  P.  Foote,  N.  Peabody  Poor,  and  William 
Henry  Smith  of  Cincinnati ;  William  D.  Gallagher  and  Ben  Casseday  of  Kentucky ; 


PREFACE. 


John  B.  Dillon  of  Indiana ;  Lyman  C.  Draper  of  Wisconsin  ;  T.  Herbert  Whipple 
of  Illinois ;  Sullivan  D.  Harris  and  A.  B.  Laurens  of  Columbus ;  John  H.  James  of 
Urbana ;  and  Harvey  Rice  of  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

The  biographic  notices  furnish  not  merely  interesting  personal  facts,  but  will  be 
found  valuable  by  students  of  bibliography,  and  of  the  history  of  periodical  literature. 
The  aid  which  has  been  rendered  the  Editor  in  their  preparation  is  announced  in 
the  table  of  Contents. 

The  order  of  arrangement  is  according  to  the  time  when,  as  nearly  as  could  be 
ascertained,  the  respective  poets  included  were  recognized  by  the  public;  except 
ing  for  the  period  1850-60,  in  which  the  order  of  succession  is  according  to  date 
of  birth. 

Trusting  that  his  labors  will  promote  encouragement  of  local  literature  among  the 
people  for  whom  he  has  worked,  and  believing  that  what  is  here  collected  will 
enhance  respect  for  that  literature,  the  Editor  submits  this  volume  not  less  cheerfully 
to  their  discriminating  criticism  than  to  the  general  good-will,  which,  in  terms 
demanding  gratitude,  but  with  it  enforcing  embarrassment,  has  been  expressed  in 
leading  periodicals  and  newspapers. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

HISTORICAL  SKETCH 13 

ADAMS,  LOIS  B. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 328 

A  Song  for  New-Year's  Eve 328 

Hoeing  Corn 329 

The  Picture  Bride 330 

Lillian  Gray 331 

AREY,  HARRIET  E.  G. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 383 

Autumn 384 

Thanksgiving 385 

The  Fireman 386 

Fame 387 

Sleigh-Riding 388 

Home  Song 388 

BAILEY,  MARGARET  L. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 281 

Duty  and  Reward 281 

The  Pauper  Child's  Burial 282 

Memories 282 

Endurance 283 

BALLARD,  GRANVILLE  M. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 652 

Where?— Here 652 

Blood  for  Blood 653 

Zula  Zong 655 

BARNITZ,  ALBERT. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 682 

Love  on  the  Upland  Lea 682 

To  Irene 683 

BARRICK,  JAMES  R. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 573 

Absent  Friends 573 

The  Forest  Stream 573 

One  Year  Ago 574 

To  a  Poet 574 

BARRITT,  FRANCES  F. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Orville  J.  Victor. ...  510 

The  Post-Boy's  Song 511 

Song  of  the  Age 512 

Resolution 512 

The  Palace  of  Imagination 513 


Page 

Passing  by  Helicon 514 

Childhood 515 

Autumnalia 515 

A  Little  Bird  that  every  one  knows.  516 

Waiting 517 

BATES,  LEWIS  J. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 638 

The  Bridal 638 

The  Meadow  Brook 639 

The  Happy  Year 639 

BEEBE:  LIZZIE  G. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 688 

Day's  Departure 688 

The  Shadow  of  the  Old  Elm-Tree. . .  688 

BETTS,  MARY  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 580 

A  Kentuckian  Kneels  to  None  but  God  580 

BIDDLE,  HORACE  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 332 

Happy  Hours 333 

The  Angel  and  the  Flower 334 

Love  and  Wisdom 334 

Birth  of  Cupid 334 

Idola 334 

BOLTON,  SARAH  T. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 367 

Awake  to  Effort 370 

Paddle  your  own  Canoe 371 

Call  the  Roll 372 

Where  is  thy  Home  ? 373 

If  I  were  the  Light  of  the  Brightest 

Star 374 

The  Flower  and  the  Starlight 374 

Dirge  for  the  Old  Year 374 

In  my  Sleep  I  had  a  Vision 375 

Mont  Blanc 375 

Lake  Leman 376 

Hope  on,  Hope  ever 377 

BONE,  JOHN  H.  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — William  D.  Howdls.  589 

The  Two  Temples 589 

New- Year's  Eve..,                              .  590 


(  1) 


CONTENTS. 


BOST  \VICK.  HELEN  L. 

BiOGKAPiur  NVni'K  —  William  D.  Howetts. 
Lul  Year's  Nevts  ................. 

The  Little  Coffin  .................. 

The  Origin  of  Dimples  ............ 

Too  Late!  ........................ 

Somewhere  .....................  ••  • 

Lulie  ............................ 

Within  the  Urn  ................... 

Little  Dandelion  .................. 

Peace  ........................... 

White  and  Red  ................... 


BRANNAN,  WILLIAM   P. 
BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 

The  Soul's  Hermitage 
The  Old  Church  Road 
Lost  Youth 
Repentance 
Homeless 


BROOKS,  MOSES. 
BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 

An  Apostrophe  to  a  Mound 


BROWNE,  EMMA  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE—  T.  Herbert  Whipple. 
Alone  ........................... 

The  Conquerors  ................... 

Aurelia  .......................... 


BRYANT,  JOHN  H. 

BIOGRAPHIC    NOTICE 

The  Indian  Summer 

On  a  Fountain  in  a  Forest 

The  Blue-Bird 

The  Better  Part 

The  Valley  Brook 

The  Blind  Restored  to  Sight 

The  Emigrant's  Song 

Prrmtchwine's  Grave 

Winter 

Upward!  Onward! 


550 
551 
551 
552 
552 
553 
554 
554 
555 

556 
556 

486 
48(5 
487 
488 
488 
488 


115 
115 


684 
684 
685 
685 


191 

192 
193 
194 
194 
195 
195 
196 
197 
197 


BURNETT,  ALFRED. 

BUM;!:  \PIMC     NOTICE 

The  Sexton's  Spade  .....  i 
1  ).-:u-  Mother,  was  it  Right  ? 
My  Mother 


508 

50* 
509 
509 


BURR,  CELIA  M. 

BIOGRAPHIC    NOTICE  ...................  49 

The  Reapers  .....    ...............  49* 

L:il»or  ...........................  49* 

The  Snow..  ,.  49 


5US1INELL.  WILLIAM  II. 

BIOGRAPHIC    NOTICK 

Floating  down  the  Tide. 
A  Song  for  the  Press... 


BUTLER,  NOBLE. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 

The  Blue-Bird 

The  Daughter  of  Judah. 
Lines  for  Music .  . 


BUTLER,  WILLIAM  0. 

BIO<;I:APHIC   NOTICE , 

The  Boatman's  Horn 


Page 

456 
456 
457 

225 
226 
226 
226 


172 
173 


IALDWELL,  ELLA. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Charles  E.  Morse. 
Judge  Not , 


CAMPBELL,  EDWIN  R. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE , 

"Let  there  be  Light", 


)ARY,  ALICE. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Orville  J.  Victor. 

Ballad  of  Jessie  Carol 

Pictures  of  Memory 

Harvest  Time 

Lyra 

Contradictoiy 

Worship 

A  Lover's  Pastime , 

To  the  March  Flowers 

Penitence 

A  Fragment. , 

Faith  and  Works , 

My  Creed , 

Blessed  Love 

Extracts  from  Various  Poems.. 


GARY,  PHCEBE. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Orville  J.  Victor. 

Equality 

Worshiping  Afar  Off 

Reconciled 

The  Fantasy 

Impatience 

Wants  and  Blessings 

The  Mind's  Possessions 

Christmas ...  


CASE,  LUELLA  J.  B. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 

The  Indian  Relic 

Energy  in  Adversity 

Death  Leading  Age  to  Repose. 


687 

687 


289 
289 


343 

346 
349 
350 
351 
352 
353 
353 
354 
354 
355 
355 
356 
356 
357 

359 
363 
363 
364 
364 
365 
365 
366 
366 

391 
391 
392 
392 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
CHAMBERLIN,  CAROLINE  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 460 

The  Hidden  Life 460 

The  Sons  of  Art 460 

A  Picture 461 

The  Soul's  Visitants 462 

To  a  Moss  Plant. .  462 

CHASE,  SALMON  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Wm.  D.  Gallagher. ,  167 

The  Sisters 170 

To  a  Star 171 

Themes 171 

CHITWOOD,  M.  LOUISA. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 628 

The  Two  Poems 629 

The  Graves  of  the  Flowers 630 

The  Seamstress 631 

Bow  to  None  but  God 631 

Serenade 632 

That  Little  Hand 632 

The  Robin's  Song 633 

The  Two  Voices 633 

CIST,  LEWIS  J. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 337 

Olden  Memories 338 

To  My  Mother 338 

Love  at  Auction  339 

Ohio's  Pilgrim  Band 340 

The  Blind  Girl  to  her  Sister 341 

The  Beaten  Path 342 

CLARK,  LUELLA. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 676 

I  Stood  Beneath  thy  Boughs 676 

Up  the  Hill  A-Berrying 676 

COSBY,  FORTUNATUS. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 272 

The  Solitary  Fountain 272 

To  the  Mocking-Bird 274 

Song 275 

Fireside  Fancies 275 

First  Love 276 

CROWELL,  GEORGE  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE—./?.  Billiard  Cutter. . .  648 

Our  Sires ' 648 

Venus 648 

Look  Up 649 

CURRY,  OTWAY. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Edward  Thomson...  88 

The  Minstrel's  Home 97 

To  My  Mother 97 

The  Blossoms  of  Life ...  98 


Page 

Autumn   Musings 98 

The  Eternal  River 99 

Kingdom  Come 100 

The  Armies  of  the  Eve 100 

The  Better  Laud 101 

The  Goings  Forth  of  God 101 

The  Great  Hereafter 102 

Lines  of  the  Life  to  Come 102 

Chasidine 103 

Extracts  from  the  "  Lore  of  the  Past"  104 

The  Lost  Pleiad 106 

Adjuration 106 

To  a  Midnight  Phantom 107 

The  Closing  Year 107 

Aaven 108 

CURTISS,  ABBY  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 440 

The  Heart's  Conflict 440 

Work  with  a  Will 441 

GUSHING,  BENJAMIN  T. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE — Henry  B.  Carrington  489 

Lay  of  the  Improvisatrice 491 

Complaint  of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb. . .  492 

The   Poet 494 

I  do  not  Love  Thee 496 

The  Past..  ..  496 


CUTTER,  GEORGE  w. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Coates  Kinney. 

Song  of  Steam 

Never  !  Never  ! 

E  Pluribus  Unum. . 


.  303 

,  306 

.  307 

.  308 

Buena  Vista 309 

The  Press 312 

Song  of  Lightning 313 

To  Althea 314 

Farewell  to  the  Lyre 315 

DENTON,  WILLIAM. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 458 

Thoughts 458 

The  Real  and  the  Ideal 459 

Blind  Workers 459 

DILLON,  JOHN  B. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 109 

The  Prophet's  Dream 110 

Burial  of  the  Beautiful Ill 

The  Funeral  of  the  Year Ill 

The  Orphan's  Harp 112 

Stanzas 112 

DINNIES,  ANNA  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Benj.  St.  James  Fry.  198 

My  Husband's  First  Gray  Hair 199 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Wedded  Love 199 

The  Wife 200 

Untold  Feelings 200 

DOWNS,  CORA  M. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 673 

The  Old  Elm  Tree 673 

The  Spirit's  Call 674 

DRAKE,  CHARLES  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 240 

What  is  Life? 241 

To  Mrs.  G.  P.  Marsh 242 

Love's  Constancy 242 

DRAKE,  JAMES  G. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 264 

Parlez  Bas 264 

DUFFIELD,  D.  BETHUNE. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— James  S.  Frost 428 

The  Maid  of  Chamouni 428 

The  Morning-Glory 429 

Farewell 429 

Earth's  Mother-Love 429 

The  Sounding  Sea 430 

A  Sabbath  Sunset  Prayer 430 

Anniversary  Ode 431 

DUFOUR,  AMANDA  L.  R. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Robert  Dale  Owen. . .   404 

Thou  Comest  Not 406 

Thought 407 

By-Gone  Hours 407 

Hymn 407 

Reveries 408 

Hope  on 409 

Confession 409 

Tribute  to  Humboldt 410 

DUMONT,  JULIA  L. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Thomas  M.  Eddy. . .  43 

Poverty 46 

The  Mother  to  her  Dying  Infant 46 

The  Pauper  to  the  Rich  Man 47 

To  the  Moon 48 

The  Thunder-Storm 49 

The  Future  Life 49 

The  Orphan  Emigrant 51 

The  Tumulus 51 

The  Home-Bound  Greeks 52 

My  Daughter  Nurse 54 

DUNN,  JOHN  G. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Abram  Brower 537 

The  Death  of  the  Inebriate 537 

Spirit  of  Earthquake 540 

A  Child's  Thought 541 


Page 

The  Spider-Elf 542 

The  Name  in  the  Air 542 

Who'll  be  the  Next  to  Die 543 

DYER,  SIDNEY. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 378 

Song  of  the  Sunbeam 379 

The  Evening  Zephyr 379 

To  an  Absent  Wife ' 380 

The  Leaf's  Complaint 380 

Hit  the  Nail  on  the  Head 381 

My  Mother's  Easy  Chair 381 

Coming  Home 382 

'Tis  Better  Late  than  Never 382 

Power  of  Song 382 

EARLE,  AUSTIN  T. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Benj.  St.  James  Fry.  421 

This  Winter  Night,  'tis  Dreary 421 

A  May  Song 422 

The  Fair  Penitent 422 

To  My  Brother  Man 422 

Warm  Hearts  Had  We 423 

Plow  Song 423 

EBERHART,  ISA  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 664 

Only  One  Left 664 

Fragment 664 

EDWARDS,  ELIJAH  E. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 626 

Let  Me  Rest 626 

"And  Then?" 627 

The  Three  Friends 627 

ELLSWORTH,  HENRY  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 316 

To  an  Absent  Wife 31 6 

The  Cholera  King 317 

New  England 318 

EMERSON,  WILLIAM  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 284 

To  the  Ohio  River 285 

The  Hills 286 

Who  are  the  Free? 286 

To  a  Locust-Tree 287 

Sunshine 287 

Who  is  Rich? 288 

The  West   288 

The  Dying  Saint 288 

EVERTS,  ORPHEUS. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— T7.  Herbert  W  hippie. .  545 

Time 545 

The  Dead 546 

Heart  and  Soul..                                .  546 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Winter  Rain 546 

Extracts  from  "  Onawequah  " 547 

FINLEY,  JOHN. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 83 

To  Indiana 84 

The  Hoosier's  Nest 84 

A  Wife  Wanted 85 

Bachelor's  Hall 86 

To  my  Old  Coat 86 

To  a  Skeleton 87 

What  is  Faith? 87 

FLAGG,  EDMUND. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 201 

Appearances 202 

The  Magnetic  Telegraph 202 

FLINT,  MICAH  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 55 

Extracts  from  the  "  Hunter  " 56 

The  Mounds  of  Cahokia 57 

The  Warrior's  Execution 58 

The  Camp  Meeting 59 

The  Silent  Monks 62 

The  Beech  Woods 63 

The  Shoshonee  Martyr 64 

On  Passing  the  Grave  of  my  Sister. .  67 

FOSDICK,  WILLIAM  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — M.  D.  Qmway 471 

The  Maize 472 

The  Catawba 473 

The  Pawpaw 474 

Light  and  Night 475 

Woods  of  the  West 475 

Lute  and  Love 476 

FOSTER,  MARY  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 449 

Hymn  to  the  Stars 449 

Summer 450 

The  Battle-Field  of  Truth 451 

Song 452 

FRY,  BENJAMIN  ST.  JAMES. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 467 

Droop  Not 467 

Say,  I  Love  Him  Yet 468 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant 468 

GAGE,  FRANCES  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Sullivan  D.  Harris . .  393 

The  Sounds  of  Industry 394 

A  Home  Picture 395 

The  Housekeeper's  Soliloquy 395 

Life's  Lessons 396 

My  Fiftieth  Birthday 397 


GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 132 

Autumn  in  the  West 137 

August 138 

May 139 

The  Mothers  of  the  West 140 

Song  of  the  Pioneers 141 

Truth  and  Freedom 142 

The  Laborer 142 

The  Land  of  Life 143 

The  Spotted  Fawn 144 

The  Artisan 145 

Conservatism 146 

Radicalos 147 

The  Better  Day 148 

Our  Children 149 

A  Hymn  of  the  Day  that  is  Dawning  149 

Dandelions 150 

Noctes  Divinorum 151 

Harvest  Hymn .' .  152 

"When   Last   the    Maple   Bud   was 

Swelling" 152 

The  West 152 

My  Fiftieth  Year 153 

GILMORE,  WILLIAM  E. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 463 

Destruction  of  the  Priesthood  of  Baal  463 

O,  I  Was  Happy  Yesternight 465 

Lines  Written  on  Mount  Logan 466 

Yon  Brook  Hath  Waters  Pearly  Bright  466 

GORDON,  JONATHAN  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 424 

A  Song  for  New-Year's 424 

Pale  Star 426 

In  Crowds,  and  yet  Sadly  Alone 426 

To  Viola  in  Heaven 427 

GREGG,  THOMAS. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 238 

Song  of  the  Winds 238 

Song  of  the  Whippowill 239 

The  Battle  of  the  Right 239 

GRIFFITH,  MATTIE. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 601 

Close  of  the  Year 601 

Leave  Me  to  Myself  To-Night 602 

HALL,  JAMES. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 71 

The  Indian  Maid's  Death  Song 72 

Wedded  Love's  First  Home 73 

Can  Years  of  Suffering  ? 73 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
HAMMOND,  CHARLES. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 68 

Boyhood 70 

BARNEY,  JOHN  M. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 25 

Extracts  from  ';  Crystalina  " 27 

The  Fever  Dream 28 

Echo  and  the  Lover 29 

The  Whippowill 30 

On  a  Valued  Friend 30 

BARNEY,  WILLIAM  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Chas.  E.  Morse 634 

The  Stab 635 

The  Buried  Hope 635 

The  Suicide 635 

The  Old  Mill 636 

Jimmy's  Wooing 637 

HARRIS,  SULLIVAN  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 401 

The  Heart's  Challenge 401 

A  Song  for  Ohio 402 

Song  of  the  Harvesters 402 

To  My  Valentine 403 

Love's  Tyranny 403 

HIBBARD,  CARRIE  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 650 

Cousin  Millie 650 

The  Old  Door-Stone 651 

Lady  Mary 651 

HOIT,  TRUE  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— T.  W.  Blackman 442 

Cure  for  Scandal 442 

Ode  to  Washington 44; 

The  True  Woman 443 

HOWARD,  EDWARD  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 503 

Midsummer 50; 

Fraternity 504 

I  Dream  of  Thee 504 

HOWE,  HARRIET  M. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 66 

My  Buckeye  Home 66 

HOWE,  SARAH  J. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 33, 

"  Let  us  go  up  " 33, 

Bend  Softly  Down 33, 

Hymn  of  Thankfulness 33 

After  a  Tempest 33 


HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 678 

Drifting  Away 678 

The  Movers 679 

Dead C.80 

The  Poet's  Friends 680 

The  Bobolinks  are  Singing 681 

Summer  Dead 681 

HOYT,  ELIZABETH  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — L.  D.  McCdbe 575 

A  Hymn  of  Old  Age 576 

October 576 

An  Ode  for  the  New  Year 577 

Song  of  the  Reaper 577 

The  Town  and  Farm 578 

The  Sisters— a  Fable 579 

This  Little  Life 579 

HUBBARD,  WILLLIAM. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — William  Lawrence. ..  444 

At  the  Grave  of  Simon  Kenton 445 

The  Hour  of  Triumph 446 

Zachary  Taylor 446 

A  Song  for  the  Farmer 446 

The  Printer 447 

Little  Willie 448 

HUNT,  JEDEDIAH. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 411 

The  Willow  by  the  Spring 411 

To  the  Queen  of  Night 412 

The  Human  Soul 412 

Voices  of  the  Dead 412 

JEWETT,  SUSAN  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 389 

The  Past 389 

My  Mother 389 

Leave  Me 390 

JOHNSON,  EMELINE  H. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Frames  Fuller  Barritt  435 

My  Child 436 

The  Daughter's  Request 437 

Affection  Beyond  the  Grave 437 

The  Vows 438 

JOHNSON,  ROSA  V. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 605 

The  Sunset  City •.  606 

The  Sea-Bird's  Treasure 607 

One  Summer  Night 608 

Angel  Watchers 609 

The  Midnight  Prayer * 609 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
JONES,  CHARLES  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Wm.  D.  Gallagher..  203 

The  Pioneers 205 

The  Old  Mound 205 

The  Deserted  Forge 206 

The  Clouds 207 

Tecumseh   208 

Knowledge 208 

JULIAN,  ISAAC  H. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 453 

Boone  in  the  Wilderness 453 

The  True  Pacific  Line . . , 454 

To  the  Genius  of  the  West 455 

KEN  YON,  WILLIAM  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 432 

To  the  Baltimore  Oriole 432 

Creation 432 

KINNEY,   COATES. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Lewis  A.  Hine 527 

Extracts  from  "  Keeuka  " 529 

Rain  on  the  Roof 531 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen 531 

Mother  of  Glory 532 

The  Eden  of  Wishes 533 

Emma  Stuart 534 

Miunehaha 535 

On  !  Right  On ! 535 

On  Marriage 536 

Discontent 536 

LAWS,  CORNELIA  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Chauncey  N.  Olds. . .  670 

The  Empty  Chair 670 

Six  Little  Feet  on  the  Fender 671 

Behind  the  Post 671 

The  Shadow 672 

LEE,  ELEANOR  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 325 

To  the  Stormy-Petrel 325 

The  Natchez  Light-House 326 

The  Sun-Struck  Eagle 327 

LITTLE,  HARVEY  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE—  Wm.  D.  Gallagher . .  116 

Palmyra 1 19 

Away,  Away,  I  Scorn  Them  All 119 

The  Wanderer's  Return 120 

On  Judah's  Hills 120 

LOCKE,  FRANCES  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 593 

Be  Considerate 593 

The  True  Life 593 

To  Till 594 

The  Day's  Burial 594 


Page 
LOGAN,  CORNELIUS  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 270 

The  Mississippi 271 

LOVEJOY,  ELIJAH  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 79 

My  Mother 80 

The  Wanderer 81 

LYTLE,  WILLIAM  H. 

•BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Chas.  J.  Foster 565 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 5(!6 

Macdonald's  Drummer 566 

The  Volunteers 567 

Popocatapetl 568 

Brigand's  Song 569 

Sailing  on  the  Sea 569 

Anacreontic 570 

Jacqueline 570 

M'ABOY,  MARY  R.  T. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 620 

Madeleine     620 

Serenade  621 

It  is  the  Winter  of  the  Year 621 

MACCLOY,  D.  CARLYLE. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 505 

A  Fragment 506 

The  Moquis 507 

M'GAFFEY,  LOUISA  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Fro.  H.  Smith 660 

The  Hill-Top  660 

Morning  in  the  City 661 

June 662 

The  Harvest-Moon 662 

M'LAUGHLIN,  EDWARD  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 247 

To  Cincinnati 248 

Harvest  Song 249 

MARSHALL,  JAMES  B. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 263 

To  Eva  :  In  her  Album 263 

MEAD,  JANE  M. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 399 

National  Ode 399 

Our  Native  Land 400 

MINOR,  HORACE  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Austin  T.  Earle 433 

A  Nymph  was  Dancing  on  a  Stream.  434 

The  Music  of  a  Dream 434 


CONTENTS. 


MORRIS,  SAMUEL  V. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE.. 

E  TribusUnum. . 


MYER,  CAROLINE. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 

The  Shadow-Land  of  the  Heart 

Up  and  Down  the  Hill 


NEALY,  MARY  E. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Jonathan  W.  G&rdwi. 

The  Little  Shoe 

The  Stars 

To  a  Lady 

Unrest    

Do  I  Love  Him  ? 

Ada 

Valentine. . , 


Page 

675 
675 


563 
563 
564 


477 

478 
479 
480 
480 
481 
482 
482 


NICHOLS,  REBECCA  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Sullivan  D.  Harris. .  290 

The  Mother's  Prayer 292 

The  Philosopher  Toad 292 

The  Lost  Soul 293 

The  Shadow 296 

Wee  Willie 297 

A  Lament  . . . , 297 

The  Poet's  Isle 298 

Little  Nell 299 

Indian  Summer 300 

Song 300 

To-Day 300 

Sleep 301 

OLIVER,  SOPHIA  H. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 279 

Shadows 279 

Mark  the  Hours  that  Shine 280 

PARKER,  BENJAMIN  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 643 

Indian  Graves 643 

Isadore 644 

Freedom 644 

PARKER,  ELVIRA. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 669 

Eoline 669 

PEIRCE,  THOMAS. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 36 

The  Dandy 38 

To  a  Lady 38 

The  Drama 39 

Knowledge  is  Power 40 

Youth  and  Old  Age 42 


Page 
PENNOCK,  CARRIE  C. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 657 

Leonore 657 

A  Picture 659 

PERKINS,  JAMES  H. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 154 

Spiritual  Presence 158 

The  Maiden's  Grave 158 

The  Young  Soldier 159 

Poverty  and  Knowledge 159 

Song 1GO 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Child 160 

My  Future 161 

Marquette 161 

.To  a  Child 162 

The  Voice  that  Bade  the  Dead  Arise  163 

Hymn.    163 

PETERS,  HUGH. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 164 

My  Native  Land 165 

The  Parting 166 

The  Yankee  Peddler 166 

PETERSON,  WILLIAM  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 677 

The  Forest  Spring 677 

PIATT,  ABRAM  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 483 

The  Dainty  Bee 484 

Sing,  Cricket 484 

Daisie 485 

PIATT,  JOHN  J. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 665 

The  Strange  Organist — A  Prelude. . .   665 

The  Morning  Street 666 

The  Night-Train 666 

The  Western  Pioneer 667 

Moonrise 667 

Postscript 668 

Two  Kings 668 

PLIMPTON,  FLORUS  B. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE—  Wm.  T.  Bascom 581 

The  Oak 582 

The  Reformer 584 

Souvenirs 585 

The  Bereaved 585 

Lewis  Wetzel 586 

POWERS.  HORATIO  N. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 548 

The  River  of  Tears 548 

The  Angel's  Bridge 549 

The  Fisher  Boy 549 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
PRENTICE,  GEORGE  D. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE —  Wm.  W.  Fosdick. ...  121 

The  Dead  Mariner 123 

A  Night  in  June 123 

The  Flight  of  Years 124 

The  Stars 126 

Sabbath  Evening 127 

Written  at  My  Mother's  Grave 127 

To  Mary 128 

Mammoth  Cave 129 

To  an  Absent  Wife 130 

To  a  Poetess 131 

A  Wish 131 

PUMMILL,  JAMES. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 571 

Emblem  of  Peace 571 

To  Mary 571 

A  Summer  Morning 572 

Contentment 572 

REED,  PETER  F. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 413 

Four  Degrees  of  Love 414 

The  Picture  on  the  Wall 414 

Gloom  and  Bloom 415 

Dollars  and  Dimes 415 

Truth 415 

RICE,  HARVEY. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 265 

The  Far  West 266 

The  Visionary 266 

The  Birth  of  Beauty 267 

A  Conceit 267 

The  Pilgrim  Sires 268 

The  Moral  Hero 268 

Hereafter 269 

Extract  from  "  Mt.  Vernon  " 269 

RICE,  ROSELLA. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Sullivan  D.  Harris. .  616 

Charlie  Lee 616 

The  Night  Wind's  Revel 617 

Spirits  of  the  Wildwood 617 

ROBERTS,  ANNA  R. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 591 

La  Belle  Riviere 591 

A  Simile 592 

A  Thought 592 

ROBINSON,  ALVIN. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 588 

The  Household  Sorrow 588 

Summer  on  the  Prairies. . ,                  .  588 


Page 
ROUSE,  ERASTUS  S.  S. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 224 

"Work!  Work!  Work!" 224 

Nothing 224 

RUBLEE,  HORACE. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 603 

Steadfastness 603 

Longings 604 

Dream-Faces 604 

SCHENCK,  WILLIAM  R. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 74 

Suicide 74 

The  Musquitoes 75 

Indian  Death  Song 75 

Friendship,  Love  and  Beauty 76 

Woman 76 

SHANNON,  MARY  E.  FEE. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 469 

Never  Stop  to  Look  Behind  You. ...  470 

A  Wish 470 

SHAW,  FRANCES  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE— T.  Herbert  Whippk.  622 

Minnehaha 622 

SHORT,  MARY  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 645 

Another  Year 645 

Gone  Home 645 

Little  Nell  Wood 646 

Appreciation 647 

May 647 

SHREVE,  THOMAS  H. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — Wm.  D.  Gallagher..  174 

I  Have  no  Wife 177 

My  First  Gray  Hair 177 

Dirge  of  the  Disappointed 178 

The  Used  Up 179 

To  My  Steed 179 

Midnight  Musings 180 

To  an  Indian  Mound 181 

Youth's  Vision  of  the  Future 182 

The  Bliss  of  Home 182 

Reflections  of  an  Aged  Pioneer 183 

SMITH,  SARAH  L.  P. 

BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE 77 

White  Roses 77 

The  Ohio 77 

To  the  Once  Loved 78 

STEWART,  GORDON  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE — William  D.  Howells .  612 

The  Spirit-Bride 612 


10                                                               CONTENTS. 

] 

Page 
613 
613 

595 
595 
596 
597 
597 
598 
599 

656 
656 

31 
32 
32 
33 
34 

416 
416 
418 
419 
419 
420 

184 

186 
189 
190 
190 
190 
190 

243 
244 
244 
245 
246 

250 
250 
251 
252 
253 
253 
254 

618 

Page 

...    618 

Affr*»r-Rlnorn 

...   619 

SUTLIFFE,  ALBERT. 

TRUESDELL,  HELEN. 

...  544 

The  Youno-  Wife's  Sono-     

...  544 

Mav  Noon  

TYNG,  HATTIE. 

CQC 

October  

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE  —  S.  D.  Curtiss.  .  . 

686 

The  Church                          

VICKROY,  LOUISE  E. 
BIOGR  \PHIC  NOTICE  —  Coates  Kinney 

...   560 

Beyond  the  Hills  

<\\'\RTZ,  JOHN  T. 
liioGRAPHic   NOTICE  

The  Spirit  Home 

560 

fifiS 

There  are  no  Tears  in  Heaven  

Shadow-Li'^ht 

562 

SYMMES,  PEYTON  S. 
BIOGK  \PHIC   NOTICE 

VICTOR,  METTA  V. 
BIOGR  \PH  ic   NOTICE 

518 

Ijines  on  Winter 

The  Red  Hunters  

...   520 

Sonnet  to  Health  

Body  and  Soul                      . 

.  520 

Appeal  for  Greece          

The  Wine  of  Parnassus  

...   521 

Poetic  Address      

The  Two  Pictures 

.      .   522 

TAYLOR,  BENJAMIN  F. 

The  Honeysuckle    

...  524 

526 

Rhymes  of  the  River     

526 

June  Dews           .           .          

VINING,  P  AM  ELI  A  S. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE  

...   624 

Shall  I  Know  Her  Again?  

The  World's  Embodied  Thought  

THOMAS,  FREDERICK  W. 
BIOGRAPHIC   NOTICE  

624 

Memory  Bells 

625 

Minniebel  

.  .    .   625 

WALKER,  JAMES  B. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE  

....   277 

Extracts  from  the  "  Emigrant  "  

'Tis  Said  that  Absence  Conquers  Love 

The  Inward  Life  

...   277 

Apostrophe  to  Egypt  

....   278 

Thy  Portrait 

The  Angel  Whisper  

....  278 

Extract    

WALLACE,  SARAH  E. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE  

...   614 

THOMAS,  LEWIS  F. 

The  Patter  of  Little  Feet  

614 

The  Singing  Tree  

...   615 

The  World  

WALLACE,  WILLIAM  R. 

BIOGKAPII  ic  NOTICE 

227 

Memory  

•  Love's  Argument  

228 

THTK'STON.  LAURA  M. 
BH»I;I:APHIC  NOTICE—  Benj.  St.  James  Fry. 

Aveline  —  A  Song  

229 

Song  of  a  Leaf    

229 

The  Grandeur  of  Repose  

....   230 

Thp  Paths  nf  T  ifY> 

Duty  in  Sorrow  

...   230 

Tin-  Green  Hills  of  My  Father-Land. 

The  Husband  to  his  Dying  Wife 
Autumn  

....   231 
....   232 

The  Gods  of  Old  

233 

Hymn  of  the  Bards  

.  .  .  .   233 

TIM'E.  GEORGE. 

I'HHJKU'llir     NoTICK  

The  Liberty  Bell  

235 

The  North  Edda  

236 

The  American  Banner 

237 

CONTENTS. 


11 


WARD,  JAMES  W. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 

Song  of  the  Musquito 

The  Word  of  Promise 

Autumn  Song 

Niagara  

Childish  Wisdom 

The  Sunbeam 

Epigram 

WARFIELD,  CATHARINE  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 

The  Return  to  Ashland 

The  Atlantic  Telegraph 

The  Shadow  of  a  Tomb 

Spring  Thunder 

The  Same  Calm  Brow 

Never,  as  I  Have  Loved  Thee 

WELBORN,  GEORGE  Y. 
BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Granville  M.  Bollard. 

The  Captive  Boy 

Voice  of  Other  Days 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE— Ben  Casseday 

The  Rainbow 

The  Presence  of  God 

Pulpit  Eloquence 

The  Little  Step-Son 

To  a  Sea-Shell.. 


Page 

255 

258 
258 
259 
260 
261 
262 
262 

319 
320 
321 
322 
323 
324 
324 

557 

558 
559 

209 
213 
214 
215 
217 
218 


Page 

The  Old  Maid 219 

May 220 

The  Dew-Drop 221 

The  Summer  Birds 221 

The  Mournful  Heart 222 

The  Golden  Ringlet 223 

WHITTLESEY,  MARY  R. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE—  Wm.  D.  H&wdls 640 

Hemlock  Hollow 640 

The  Woodman's  Ax 640 

Juliette 641 

Not  Yet 642 

WILSON,  OBED  J. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 500 

The  Stars 500 

Lines 501 

Life— A  Journey 502 

WOOD,  JULIA  A. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 610 

Her  Glove 610 

Prayer  for  My  Dying  Child 611 

There  is  a  Light 611 

WRIGHT,  NATHANIEL. 

BIOGRAPHIC  NOTICE 113 

To  a  Fly H3 

The  Mountain  Storm 113 


HISTORICAL   SKETCH. 


THE  men  who  began  the  settlement  of  the  North- West,  on  the  Ohio  river,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Muskingum,  in  1788,  were  men  of  culture;  and,  while  cheerfully 
undertaking  the  perils  and  deprivations  incident  to  a  wilderness  traversed  by  Indians, 
they  provided  that  the  refinements  of  art  and  literature  should  not  altogether  be 
denied  them.  The  social  and  national  festivals,  which  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
observe  in  New  England,  whence  they  had  emigrated,  were  maintained  in  their  forest 
town.  At  Marietta  the  earliest  orations  and  the  earliest  poems,  as  well  as  the  first 
civil  laws  of  the  West,  were  produced.  The  hunters  of  Kentucky  had,  no  doubt, 
snatches  of  rude  song  in  which  their  heroic  deeds  were  celebrated ;  and,  no  doubt, 
earlier  than  the  year  1789,  leaders  among  them  often  made  stirring  addresses ;  but 
the  pioneer  attentions  to  what  may  justly  be  claimed  as  Western  Literature,  were 
given  at  the  first  settlement  made  in  the  Ohio  Company's  purchase. 

At  a  celebration,  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1789,  at  Marietta,  Return  Jonathan 
Meigs1  pronounced  an  oration  which  concluded  with  the  following  lines,  descriptive 
of  the  Ohio  Valley  as  it  then  appeared,  and  as  it  was  destined  to  become : 

Enough  of  tributary  praise  is  paid, 
To  virtue  living,  or  to  merit  dead. 
To  happier  themes,  the  rural  muse  invites, 
To  calmest  pleasures,  and  serene  delights. 
To  us,  glad  fancy  brightest  prospects  shows  ; 
Rejoicing  nature  all  around  us  glows  : 
Here  late  the  savage,  hid  in  ambush,  lay, 
Or  roamed  th'  uncultured  valleys  for  his  prey  ; 
Here  frowned  the  forest  with  terrific  shade  ; 
No  cultured  fields  exposed  the  opening  glade. 
How  changed  the  scene  !    See  nature  clothed  in  smiles 
With  joy  repays  the  laborer  for  his  toils  ; 
Her  hardy  gifts  rough  industry  extends, 
The  groves  bow  down,  the  lofty  forest  bends  ; 
On  every  side  the  cleaving  axes  sound — 
The  oak  and  tall  beech  thunder  to  the  ground : 

And  see  the  spires  of  Marietta  rise, 
And  domes  and  temples  swell  into  the  skies  ; 
Here  justice  reign,  and  foul  dissension  cease, 
Her  walks  be  pleasant,  and  her  paths  be  peace. 

1  Then  an  attorney  at  law  in  Marietta  ;  in  1803,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio  ;  in  1S04,  Command 
ant  of  the  United  States  troops  in  the  upper  district  of  Louisiana ;  in  1805,  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Territory 
of  Louisiana  ;  in  1807,  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Territory  of  Michigan ;  in  1808,  elected  Supreme  Judge  for  Ohio  ; 
in  1809,  chosen  United  States  Senator  from  Ohio  ;  in  1810,  elected  Governor  of  Ohio  ;  and  in  1814,  appointed  Post 
master  General  of  the  United  States.  He  died,  at  Marietta,  March  twenty-ninth,  1825,  aged  sixty  years. 

(  13) 


14  HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 

Here  swift  Muskingum  rolls  his  rapid  waves  ; 
There  fruitful  valleys  fair  Ohio  laves  ; 
On  its  smooth  surface  gentle  zephyrs  play, 
The  sunbeams  tremble  with  a  placid  ray. 
What  future  harvests  on  his  bosom  glide, 
And  loads  of  commerce  swell  the  "  downward  tide," 
AVhore  Mississippi  joins  in  length'ning  sweep, 
And  rolls  majestic  to  the  Atlantic  deep. 

Along  our  banks  see  distant  villas  spread  ; 
Here  waves  the  corn,  and  there  extends  the  mead  : 
Here  sound  the  murmurs  of  the  gurgling  rills  ; 
There  bleat  the  flocks  upon  a  thousand  hills. 
Fair  opes  the  lawn— the  fertile  fields  extend, 
The  kiudly  flowers  from  smiling  heaven  descend  ; 
The  skies  drop  fatness  on  the  blooming  vale  ; 
From  spicy  shrubs  ambrosial  sweets  exhale  ; 
Fresh  fragrance  rises  from  the  floweret's  bloom, 
And  ripening  vineyards  breathe  a  "  glad  perfume." 
Gay  swells  the  music  of  the  warbling  grove, 
And  all  around  is  melody  and  love. 

Here  may  religion  fix  her  blessed  abode, 
Bright  emanation  of  creative  God  ; 
Here  charity  extend  her  liberal  hand, 
And  mild  benevolence  o'erspread  the  land  ; 
In  harmony  the  social  virtues  blend  ; 
Joy  without  measure,  rapture  without  end  ! 

A  printing-press  had  been  established  at  Lexington,  Kentucky,  in  1787,  on  which 
a  weekly  newspaper  was  printed,1  and,  in  1793,  Cincinnati  had  its  first  newspaper;2 
but  no  tokens  of  the  cultivation  of  the  Muses  in  the  West  were  given,  until  about  the 
year  1815,  when  The  Western  Spy3  occasionally  published  verses  which  were  an 
nounced  as  original.  Newspapers  were  then  printed  in  Missouri,  in  Michigan,  and  in 
Indiana;4  but  they  were  mere  chronicles  of  news,  giving  infrequent  attention  even  to 
local  business  affairs.  Soldiers,  hunters,  and  boatmen  had  among  them  many  songs, 
descriptive  of  adventures  incident  to  backwoods  life,  some  of  which  were  not  desti 
tute  of  poetic  merit ;  but  they  were  known  only  around  camp-fires,  or  on  "  broad- 
horn-.'""'  and  tradition  has  preserved  none  which  demands  place  in  these  pages. 

In  August,  1819,  the  initial  monthly  magazine  of  the  West  was  issued  at  Lexing 
ton,  Kentucky.6  There  was  then  decided  rivalry  between  Cincinnati  and  Lexington 
for  litcivry  pre-eminence.  Rival  institutions  of  learning7  exerted  powerful  influence 
wli(;rever  social  circles  existed,  not  wholly  absorbed  by  imperative  material  necessi- 
ti<--,  and  the  effect  of  that  influence  was  the  development  of  an  active  literary  spirit, 
which  found  expression  in  The  Western  Review,  The  Western  Spy,  and  in  The 

1  The  Kentucke  Gazette,  by  William  Bradford. 

2  The  Sentinel  of  the  North   \V>xt  T<  rritnnj,  hy  William  Maxwell. 
*  Started,  in  1799,  by  Joseph  Carpenter,  at  Cincinnati. 

«  Established  in  Missouri,  at  St.  Louis.  1808  ;  in  Michigan,  at  Detroit,  1810  ;  in  Indiana,  at  Vincennes,  in  1811. 
6  The  common  name  for  Ohio  and  Mississippi  flat-boats. 

9  The  ]\''^'t/i  i;-r,,;r.     William  (Jibbes  Hunt,  Editor.    Octavo,  62  pages.    Price  $5.00  a  year.    Discontinued  at 
the  end  of  the  fourth  volume.  July,  1821. 
i  Transylvania  rnivrr.-ity,  Lexington;  Cincinnati  College. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH.  15 

Liberty  Hall  and  Cincinnati  Gazette.1  The  poetic  fruit  of  that  spirit  was  chiefly 
anonymous,  or  over  fictitious  signatures,  and  upon  local  topics  ;  but  occasionally  verses 
were  produced  which  would  do  honor  to  the  poet's  corner  of  a  newspaper  of  the 
present  time. 

The  first  book  or  pamphlet  of  original  verses,  published  in  the  West,  was  printed 
at  Cincinnati,  in  1819.  It  was  a  duodecimo  pamphlet  of  ninety-two  pages,  entitled, 
"  American  Bards:  A  Modern  Poem,  in  three  parts."  The  author  did  not  announce 
himself,  but  was  understood  to  be  Gorham  A.  Worth.2  Its  purpose  and  value  can  be 
presented  in  a  few  stanzas : 

As  a  general,  intent  upon  movements  more  near, 

Where  the  pride  of  the  battle's  arrayed, 
Sends  a  chief  to  inspect  the  divisions  in  rear, 
To  inspire  them  with  ardor  in  victory's  career, 

And  report  each  delinquent  brigade  : 

So  Apollo,  engrossed  with  the  Bards  of  the  Isle, 

So  famed,  but  so  garrulous  grown, 
Sends  his  Aid  to  the  West,  to  examine  the  style 
Of  our  star-bannered  poets,  and  notice  the  while 

What  laurels  we  claimed  as  our  own. 

His  orders  expressed,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 

High  o'er  the  Atlantic  was  borne 
The  deputy-god,  thus  commissioned  to  bind 
In  a  bundle  what  garlands  our  muses  had  twined, 

And  report,  a  la  critique,  as  sworn. 

Having  surveyed  the  South,  the  East,  and  the  West  of  America,  the  deputy-god 
reported : 

From  the  shores  of  St.  John,  in  the  Province  of  Maine, 

To  the  halls  of  St.  Boone,  in  the  West, 
Her  minstrels  are  heard  ;  and  strain  after  strain, 
From  the  cities,  the  mountains  re-echo  again, 

Till  at  length  'mid  the  prairies  they  rest. 

Neither  his  catalogue  of  those  minstrels,  nor  his  opinion  of  their  merits,  which  he 
then  proceeds  to  give,  is  worth  quoting. 

In  November,  1819,  Joseph  Buchanan  published,  at  Cincinnati,  the  first  number  of 
a  weekly  paper,  which  he  called  The  Literary  Cadet.  It  gave  promise  of  spirit  and 
taste,  but,  when  twenty-three  numbers  had  been  issued,  was  merged  in  The  Western 
Spy,  which  was  then  entitled  The  Western  Spy  and  Literary  Cadet,  Mr.  Buchanan 
remaining  as  editor.  The  Spy  and  Cadet  soon  became  the  favorite  medium  of  pub 
lication  for  the  rhymers,  both  of  Kentucky  and  of  Ohio.  A  metrical  satire  by  one 
of  their  number,3  though,  no  doubt,  more  severe  than  fair,  which  was  published  in 

*  The  Liberty  Hall  was  started  in  1804,  by  Rev.  John  W.  Browne  ;  and  in  December,  1816,  the  Cincinnati  Gazette, 
begun  by  Thomas  Palmer  in  July  of  that  year,  was  merged  in  it,  and  it  was  then  published  semi-weekly  as  well  as 
weekly,  being  the  first  semi-weekly  paper  in  the  North- West. 

2  Then  a  banker  in  Cincinnati. 

8  Thomas  Peirce,  in  No.  xx.  of  "  Odes  of  Horace  in  Cincinnati."  of  which  account  is  given,  page  36. 


16  HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 

The  Spy  and  Cadet,  August  eighteenth,  1821,  gives   their  signatures  and  indicates 
their  characteristics : 

The  first  to  notice  is  "  Ohio's  bard,"  * 

Who,  with  the  love  of  deathless  glory  smitten, 
Labored — how  long  I  know  not,  nor  how  hard — 

Until  a  certain  poem  he  had  written ; 
And,  scorning  to  accept  the  least  reward 

In  useless  cash,  a  novel  scheme  he  hit  on — 
To  let  it  run  its  own  road,  helter  skelter  ; 
When  lo  !  it  took  to  Lethe's  banks  for  shelter. 

When  warmed  and  dazzled  by  some  darling  theme, 

He  writes  with  ardor  and  poetic  passion, 
But  wild  as  if  the  whole  he  did  but  dream 

(A  mode  of  composition  much  in  fashion), 
Contented  if  but  now  and  then  a  gleam 

Of  light  illume  his  wanderings,  to  dash  on 
The  best  he  may  do,  and  improve  the  season. 
With  or  without  the  aid  of  ''rhyme  or  reason." 

Proceed,  great  bard  !  for  though  your  first  essay 

May  raise  the  fool's  derision — never  heed  it ; 
Still  travel  on  the  muses'  turnpike  way, 

And  write  a  better  book  (for  much  we  need  it), 
In  which  your  genius  may  have  ampler  play  ; 

E'en  learned  reviewers  then  will  deign  to  read  it, 
And  not,  like  all  your  former  critic-sages, 
Just  name  the  title  and  amount  of  pages. 

The  next  in  course  is  "  Blunderbuss  Esquire," 

Who,  like  the  fever,  comes  amongst  us  yearly 
To  hurl  about  his  wild  poetic  fire, 

Until  some  of  us  have  been  scorched  severely  : 
But  should  he  ever  fairly  raise  our  ire, 

He'll  pay  for  all  his  sneers  and  satires  dearly  ; 
Through  every  alley,  street,  and  lane  we'll  dog  him  ; 
And  if  we  catch  him,  ten  to  one  we'll  flog  him. 

On  this,  my  scale,  the  "  Bard  of  Locust  Grove  " 

May,  if  he  pleases,  stand  the  third  in  number  ; 
If  not,  'twill  be  my  task  ere  long  to  prove 

He  ne'er  wrote  aught  but  trash  and  useless  lumber  ; 
And  if  he  upward  aim  one  peg  to  move, 

He  must  not  let  his  muse  profoundly  slumber, 
As  wont— save  just  to  wake  and  chant  a  ditty, 
On  every  New- Year's  day,  to  please  the  city. 
In  truth,  I  scarce  know  how  to  make  report 

Of  one  who  writes,  'tis  known,  so  very  little  ; 
But  if  his  lays  are  not  the  best,  they're  short, 

And,  therefore,  suit  most  readers  to  a  tittle  ; 
And  though  his  muse  may  kick,  and  rear,  and  snort, 

And  show  on  some  occasions  too  much  mettle, 
Yet  were  she  oftener  saddled,  backed,  and  ridden, 
She'd  move  superbly  wheresoever  bidden. 

1  Gorham  A.  Worth. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


The  next  in  order,  'mong  our  city  bards, 

Comes  for  his  share  of  laurels,  young  "  Juvenis,"1 
Who  nobly  from  his  poetry  discards 

All  sense  and  harmony  5  therefore  (between  us) 
He  has  obtained  my  warmest,  best  regards, 

And  I  will  ever  be  his  kind  Maecenas, 
While  he,  as  usual,  writes  without  a  thought,  or 
Instead  of  ink,  he  uses  milk  and  water. 

Oh  !  how  I  love  his  lamb-like  sort  of  style  ! 

It  is  so  soft,  so  tender,  and  so  simple  ! 
'Tis  so  much  like  a  little  baby's  smile, 

That  scarcely  raises  on  its  cheek  a  dimple ! 
It  makes  one  "  feel  all  over  so  ;  "  meanwhile 

It  vails  the  little  sense  as  with  a  wimple  ; 
And  each  charmed  reader  feels  himself  a  lover, 
Until  he  falls  asleep — and  all  is  over. 

In  course,  "  Favonius  "  and  "  Puero  "  come, 

Who,  being  much  alike.  I  link  together  ; 
Although  no  poets,  they  have  jingled  some, 

But  when,  or  where,  or  for  what  end — or  whether 
Just  so  so,  or  still  meaner — I  am  mum, 

Except  to  drop  this  friendly  hint  to  either — 
He  who  writes  ill,  the  less  he  writes  the  better, 
And  hence,  let  rhyme  no  more  your  genius  fetter. 

And  last  of  all,  some  half  a  score  or  so, 

"  Fudge,"  »  Momus,"  "  Umbra,"  "  Tom,"  and  "  Dick,"  and  "  Harry," 
«  Kentucky  Bard,"  «  Snip."  "  Sneezer,"  and  «  Quiz  &  Co.," 

All  aim  to  write,  and  all  alike  miscarry ; 
Like  geese  of  passage  flying  to  and  fro, 

Unused  in  any  climate  long  to  tarry — 
In  short,  the  fag-end  of  the  rabble. 
Attracting  notice  only  by  their  gabble. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1821,  a  competitor  for  the  prose  and  poetic  contri 
butions  of  the  young  writers  of  Ohio,  Kentucky,  and  Indiana,  which  The  Spy  and 
Cadet  had  chiefly  monopolized,  was  issued  at  Cincinnati.  It  was  a  semi-monthly 
quarto  paper,  called  The  Olio?-  The  encouragement  given  by  these  journals  to  local 
literature  was  the  inspiring  cause  of  the  first  effort  on  the  part  of  a  literary  society, 
in  the  West,  for  development  of  poetic  ability. 

In  the  year  1818,  the  students  of  Cincinnati  College  formed  a  society  for  mutual 
literary  improvement,  which  they  denominated  The  Philomathic.  The  first  members 
were  John  H.  and  Junius  Jaines,  George  M'ackey  Wilson,3  Lemuel  D.  Howells, 
Robert  T.  Lytle,  and  Edward  L.  Drake.  Afterward,  William  Henry  Harrison, 
Thomas  Peirce,  Daniel  Drake,  Benjamin  Drake,  Peyton  Short  Symmes,  and  other 

*  A  writer  for  the  Spy  and  Cadet,  who  published  a  small  pamphlet,  containing  poems,  at  Cincinnati,  in  1822. 

2  John  II.  Wood  and  S.  S.  Brooks  were  the  editors  and  publishers  ;  Robert  T.  Lytle,  John  II.  James,  Lemuel  Rey 
nold?,  Solomon  Smith,  and  Dennis  M'llenry,  the  principal  contributors— all  of  whom  had  been,  and  continued  to  be, 
contributors  to  the  Spy  and  Cadet.     The  Olio  was  continued  about  one  year. 

3  Son  of  Rev.  Joshua  L.  Wilson,  well  known  for  many  years  as  Pastor  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  of  Cin 
cinnati. 


18  HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 

gentlemen,  well  known  at  that  day,  were  elected  members  of  a  branch  of  the  society, 
composed  of  graduates  and  persons  interested  in  literary  affairs.  In  that  circle  orig 
inated  the  enterprise  of  offering  a  gold  medal  of  the  value  of  fifty  dollars  for  the  best 
original  poem  by  a  citizen  of  the  Western  country,  which  should  be  sent  to  the  Sec 
retary  of  the  society,  between  the  fifteenth  of  November,  1821,  and  the  first  day  of 
April,  1822.  The  poem  was  required  to  consist  of  not  less  than  four  hundred  lines, 
and,  to  merit  the  award,  be  worthy  of  publication,  the  society  pledging  itself  to  print 
it  in  acceptable  form.  The  only  restriction  as  to  subject  was  that  "if  any  natural 
scenery,  historical  incidents,  or  existing  institutions  were  commemorated,  they  should 
be  of  a  Western  character." 

The  committee  appointed  to  decide  upon  the  merits  of  the  poems  competing  for 
the  prize,  was  composed  of  John  P.  Foote,  John  D.  Godman,1  and  Benjamin  Drake. 
Twelve  poems  were  received  by  the  officers  of  the  society.2  Extracts  from  four 
of  them,  "  The  Muse  of  Hesperia,"  by  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati,  "  The  Banks  of 
the  Ohio,"  by  a  lady  of  Madison,  Indiana,  "  The  Story  of  Osage  to  Ben  Logan," 
written  in  Ross  county,  and  "  Retrospection,"  written  in  Muskingum  county,  Ohio, 
were  published  in  The  Spy  and  Cadet.  The  medal  was  awarded  to  "  The  Muse  of 
Hesperia,  a  Poetic  Reverie,"  and  "The  Banks  of  Ohio"  was  adjudged  next  in 
merit. 

"  The  Muse  of  Hesperia "  was  published  by  the  Philomathic  Society  on  heavy 
paper  from  clear  type,3  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1823.  It  was  then  announced 
that  the  author  had  declined  making  himself  known  to  the  society,  so  as  to  receive 
the  medal  awarded  his  poem.  The  President  of  the  society,  in  a  preface  to  the 
pamphlet  containing  "The  Muse,"  said  it  was  not  given  as  the  best  exhibition  of 
poetic  talent  in  the  West,  but  as  the  best  submitted  to  the  committee.  For  several 
weeks  after  its  appearance,  lively  discussion  upon  its  authorship  and  upon  its  merits 
wa>  had  in  the  Gazette  and  Liberty  Hall,4  and  in  The  Spy  and  Cadet.  The  author 
ship  was  not  certainly  ascertained  for  ten  or  twelve  years.  It  was  then  fixed  upon 
Thomas  Peirce.5 

Both  on  account  of  its  origin  and  its  characteristics,  "  The  Muse  of  Hesperia  "  is 
peculiarly  appropriate  for  the  conclusion  of  this  Sketch.  It  embodies  a  just  appeal 
to  the  Bards  of  the  West  for  original  study  and  treatment  of  themes  suggested  by 
the  scenery,  history  and  romance  of  the  Hesperian  valleys. 

Such  facts,  showing  the  origin  of  literary  enterprises,  and  the  encouragement  and 
development  of  poetical  literature  in  the  West,  after  1821,  as  could  be  ascertained, 
have  been  given  in  the  Biographic  Notices  which  precede  the  specimens  of  that 
literature  selected  for  this  volume. 

1  Then  editor  of  The  Western  Quarterly  Reporter,  a  medical  journal,  published  by  John  P.  Foote,  which  was  dis 
continued  with  the  Hixth  number,  when  Dr.  Godman  removed  to  Philadelphia. 
-Mohn  II.  James,  President  :  <;«•<..  M.  \Vilson,  Secretary. 

3.1.  H.  Looker  &  S.  Krync.Ms  ( publishers  of  the  Spy  and  Cadet),  printers.     12mo,  pp.  62. 
*  Then  edited  by  Benjamin  F.  Powers. 
6  Biographic  Notice,  page  36. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


1!) 


THE  MUSE  OF  HESPERIA. 


'TWAS  eve  :  the  sun  had  sunk  to  rest 
Beneath  a  hill's  aspiring  crest ; 

But  still  the  gush 

Of  changeful  light  illumed  the  skies, 
And  tinged  the  clouds  with  varying  dyes, 
Till  faded  from  our  eager  eyes 

Its  latest  blush. 

'Twas  eve  :  the  hum  of  city-crowd, 
Now  faint  and  weak,  now  clear  and  loud, 

The  low  of  kine, 

The  bleat  of  sheep  on  neighboring  plains, 
The  milk-maid's  song  of  love-lorn  swains, 
The  cow-boy's  still  more  rustic  strains, 

At  once  combine. 

'Twas  eve  :  the  streams  and  groves  along 
The  Whippo  will  poured  forth  his  song 

In  descant  shrill  ; 
And  night's  more  solitary  bird 
His  hoarse  and  boding  song  preferred  ; 
While  ever  and  anon  was  heard 

Some  distant  rill. 

'Twas  eve  :  in  woodlands  dark  and  damp, 
The  glow-worm  lit  his  emerald  lamp  ; 

While  to  and  fro 

The  fire-flies  darted  quick  and  bright, 
As  if  the  countless  stars  of  night 
Had  left  their  empyrean  height 

To  sport  below. 

'Twas  eve :  the  toils  of  daytime  o'er, 
I  strolled  along  Ohio's  shore, 

Where  yonder  vale 
Meanders  through  a  hundred  hills, 
From  whose  high  tops  transparent  rills 
Rush  boldly  down  ;  while  music  fills 

The  evening  gale. 

There,  on  the  grassy  shore,  a  grove, 
Sacred  to  Solitude  and  Love, 

Spread  wide  around ; 

The  moonbeams  through  the  foliage  played 
In  changeful  fits  of  light  and  shade  ; 
I  trembled — paused — for  lo  !  I  strayed 

On  fairy  ground. 

Now  calm  and  calmer  stirred  the  breeze, 
Till  not  a  zephyr  fanned  the  trees  ; 

So  wildly  sweet, 
So  still,  so  awful,  so  profound, 
The  breathless  solitude  around, 
That  e'en  distinctly  seemed  to  sound 

The  pulse's  beat. 


Sudden,  within  this  fairy  ring, 
Where  Silence  moved  on  silken  wing, 

From  harps  of  heaven 
Burst  the  full  songs  of  seraph-choirs, 
As  angel-fingers  touched  the  lyres, 
And  Music  breathed  with  all  the  fires 

To  poets  given. 

When  lo  !  from  heaven's  ethereal  height, 
Encompassed  by  a  sheet  of  light, 

A  spirit,  fair 

As  ever  poet's  fancy  drew, 
On  viewless  pinions  downward  flew, 
And,  hovering  full  before  my  view, 

Alighted  there. 

Against  a  harp  her  head  reclined  ; 
Around  her  brows  the  laurel  twined. 

This  Angel-form, 

Through  me,  her  idle  son,  addressed 
My  brother  Poets  of  the  West, 
With  noble  air,  this  firm  behest, 

In  language  warm : 

"  Know,  youthful  Bards — for  scarcely  yet 
Pieria's  waves  your  lips  have  wet, 
And  scarce  a  wing 

Have  you  stretched  forth  in  life's  gay  prime 
To  reach  Parnassus'  height  sublime, 
And  scarce  essayed  in  polished  rhyme 
Its  charms  to  sing — 

"  Know,  youthful  Bards,  to  me  belong 
The  realms  of  Genius  and  of  Song  : — • 

Who  can  refuse 

At  objects  great  and  good  to  aim, 
On  Glory's  page  to  write  his  name, 
And  follow  on  to  deathless  fame 

Hesperia's  Muse  ? — 

"  Know,  youthful  Bards,  to  me  are  given 
Ten  thousand  airs  from  earth  and  heaven. 

From  infant  hours 
A  pupil  of  the  sacred  Nine, 
Reared  by  Apollo's  hand  divine, 
The  soul  of  Harmony  is  mine, 

And  Music's  powers. 

"  O'er  stream,  and  wood,  and  grove,  and  lawn, 
As  Night's  dim  curtain  now  is  drawn, 

My  object  here, 

Bards  of  the  West !  is  to  inspire 
Your  zeal  to  wake  the  slumbering  lyre, 
And  reach,  on  classic  wings,  a  higher 

And  nobler  sphere. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


"  Lo !  bursting  on  the  astonished  view, 
What  landscapes,  vast,  and  rich,  and  new, 

Are  yours  to  boast ! 

What  mountains  lift  their  heads  on  high! 
What  lakes  in  boundless  prospect  lie  I 
What  rivers  roll  their  volumes  by, 
To  yonder  coast ! 

"  In  no  department  of  the  globe 
Does  Flora  wear  a  richer  robe, 

Of  brighter  dyes : 
Here,  in  the  long  career  of  Time, 
Nature  still  reigns  in  youthful  prime, 
And  objects  beauteous,  vast,  sublime, 

Around  her  rise. 

"  Far  westward,  where  the  sun's  last  rays 
Fire  the  wide  landscape  with  a  blaze 

Of  dazzling  gold, 

Huge  mountains  roar  their  giant  forms 
On  high  amid  the  wint'ry  storms, 
And.  reaching  wide  their  thousand  arms, 

A  world  infold. 

"  There,  seated  on  his  rocky  throne, 
Enwrapt  in  clouds,  supreme,  alone, 

Where  tempests  blow, 
The  mighty  Genius  of  the  West 
Hurls  forth  his  storms:  at  his  behest 
The  thunders  rage,  or  slumbering  rest, 
To  all  below. 

"  He  looks  around  with  kingly  pride  : 
Far  eastward  sees,  expanded  wide, 

Vast  rivers  pour  ; 

Far  northward,  arctic  tempests  rave  ; 
Far  southward,  golden  harvests  wave  ; 
Far  westward,  ocean's  billows  lave 

Columbia's  shore. 

"  How  long  the  war-whoop,  round  the  peak 
Of  these  huge  mountains,  high  and  bleak, 

Responsive  rung ! 

I  low  long  those  granite  rocks  have  stood  ! 
How  long  has  roared  that  headlong  flood  ! 
How  long  has  bloomed  and  died  that  wood  ! 

— By  bards  unsung. 

"Nor  are  their  beauties  wholly  fled, 
Now  that  the  white  man's  restless  tread 

Disturbs  the  gloom — 
A  gloom  which  swift  before  him  flies, 
As  meadows  open  to  the  skies, 
As  forests  fall,  and  cities  rise, 

And  harvests  bloom. 


"  Behold,  far  north,  yon  inland  seas  ! 
Now  calm,  unruffled  by  a  breeze, 

They  silent  sleep  ; 

Now  heave  on  high  the  mountain-surge, 
And  wave  on  wave  tremendous  urge, 
And  man  and  shattered  navies  merge 
Beneath  the  deep. 

"  There,  'mid  the  solitude  profound, 
With  boundless  forests  closed  around, 

From  age  to  age, 
Untutored  red  men  plied  the  oar. 
Ferocious  wild  beasts  trod  the  shore, 
And  tempests  swept  their  bosoms  o'er 

With  boisterous  rage. 

'•  Anon,  their  placid,  crystal  wave 
To  all  a  faithful  mirror  gave, 

Above,  around  : 

There  one  might  see  the  inverted  skies, 
See  constellations  set  and  rise, 
Enlightening  with  their  diamond-eyes 

The  vast  profound. 

"  There,  unobserved  by  bard  or  sage, 
For  many  an  unrecorded  age, 

The  fairy-band, 

In  cars  of  softest  moonlight  made, 
Drove  o'er  the  deep  ;  or,  jocund,  played 
Where  groves  adorned  with  light  and  shade 

The  adjacent  land. 

"  But  softly — hark !  the  white  man's  tread — 
And  all  the  fairy  vision's  fled  ! 

Lo  !  on  the  sight 

Bursts  a  new  scene,  which  ne'er  can  fail 
To  rouse  your  pride  while  navies  sail, 
And  squadrons  o'er  the  foe  prevail 

In  equal  fight. 

"  See,  far  and  wide,  ten  thousand  rills, 
Forth  issuing  from  unnumbered  hills, 

Through  vales  and  woods  ; 
Now  gliding  gently  from  their  source, 
Now  gathering  strength  along  their  course, 
Now  rushing  with  resistless  force 

To  kindred  floods. 

"  See,  in  one  channel  broad  and  deep, 
The  congregated  torrent  sweep, 

Which,  stretching  far 
O'er  many  a  wide-extended  plain, 
Resolves  its  empire  to  maintain, 
And  wages  with  its  parent-main 

Eternal  war. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


"  As  marching  on  its  course  sublime, 
Through  what  a  vast  extent  of  clime 

Its  waters  glide ! 

From  where  the  eastern  mountains  rise, 
From  those  that  meet  the  western  skies, 
From  where  the  lakes  attract  our  eyes, 

To  ocean's  tide ! 

"  To  seek  a  stream  so  long  and  deep, 
That  flows  with  such  resistless  sweep, 

Where  turn  our  eyes  ? 
The  Danube,  Ganges,  Nile,  and  Rhine, 
Were  all  their  volumes  to  combine, 
This  noble  stream  would  scarce  outshine 

For  length  and  size. 

"  How  long,  through  ages  past  and  gone, 
Its  waters  flowed  unheeded  on  ; 

As  through  the  dark, 
Unbounded  forest's  gloomy  shade, 
In  quest  of  game  the  Indian  strayed, 
Or  on  its  surface,  sportive,  played 

His  simple  bark! 

"  And  still  enchanting  is  the  scene  ; 
Now,  orchards,  fields,  and  meadows  green 

Are  spreading  wide  5 
Now,  Art  and  Science,  hand  in  hand, 
Walk  forth  ;  and,  at  their  joint  command, 
Roads,  bridges,  cities  grace  the  land, 

And  ships,  the  tide. 

"  These  mountains,  valleys,  lakes,  and  woods — 
These  rills  that  glide,  and  cataract-floods 

That  sweep  along, 

To  you  are  grand  and  fruitful  themes. 
Gild  these  with  Fancy's  brightest  beams, 
And  wrap  them  in  the  wildest  dreams 
Of  fairy-song. 

"  For  whether  Spring,  with  warmth  and  showers, 
Gives  to  the  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  flowers, 

Another  birth  ; 

As  zephyrs  on  light  pinions  move, 
And  warblers  vocalize  each  grove 
With  songs  of  gratitude  and  love, 

Or  sportive  mirth : 

"  Or  Summer  darts  his  radiance  warm, 
And  every  vegetative  form 

Is  blooming  fair  ; 
As  rills  and  rivers  cease  to  flow, 
As  ardent  suns  resistless  glow, 
And  breezes  scarcely  seem  to  blow — 

So  calm  the  air  : 


"  Or  Autumn  through  the  orchard  strews, 
And  native  woods,  with  hand  profuse, 

His  ripened  fruit ; 
As  Flora  captivates  your  eyes, 
With  all  her  gay  and  sober  dyes, 
And  the  wild  game  in  terror  flies 

The  close  pursuit : 

"  Or  Winter  from  his  store-house  throws 
O'er  fields  and  woods  his  fleecy  snows ; 

As  his  cold  breath 
Whistles  among  the  branches  bare, 
Stills  the  sweet  songsters  of  the  air, 
And  nips  each  herb  and  floweret  fair 

With  instant  death  : 

"  Whether  bright  Morn  o'er  wood  and  lawn 
Spreads  the  first  blushes  of  the  dawn, 

With  rosy  hand  ; 

As  through  the  air  her  sweets  diffuse, 
And  from  exhaustless  mines  she  strews 
Ten  thousand  gems  of  crystal  dews 

O'er  all  the  land  : 

"  Or  Noon  sends  forth  the  sultry  hours 
To  scathe  the  choicest  fruits  and  flowers  ; 

As  Phoebus  now 

With  undiminished  radiance  glows, 
And  no  decrease  of  fervor  knows, 
Till  Eve  her  dusky  mantle  throws 

O'er  Nature's  brow : 

"  Or  gloomy  Night  extends  o'er  all 
The  slumbering  world  her  blackest  pall ; 

As  from  her  seat, 

In  ether  fixed,  she  views  the  whole— 
The  countless  orbs  that  o'er  her  roll, 
And  land  and  sea,  from  pole  to  pole, 

Beneath  her  feet : 

"  Whether  abroad  the  tempest  lowers, 
The  lightnings  flash,  and  thunder  roars 

With  deafening  sound  : 
Or  Nature's  face  is  calm  and  fair, 
And  all  that  live  their  joys  declare, 
And  fragrance  through  the  balmy  air 

Is  breathing  round  : — 

"  Nay,  view  it  in  what  state  you  will, 
This  Eden  breathes  enchantment  still. 

Delighted  here 

Fays,  Sylphs,  and  Genii  oft  preside, 
Unseen,  on  airy  pinions  glide, 
And  watch  and  guard  the  landscape  wide, 

Through  all  the  year. 


22 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


•  Must  foreign  rhymers  still  succeed 
In  framing  tales  for  you  to  read? 

Can  feudal  jars 

Alone  inspire  you  with  delight, 
As  vengeful  chieftain,  squire,  and  knight 
Rush  forth,  in  massive  armor  dight, 
To  border-wars  ? 

"  And  will  you  not,  in  lofty  verse. 
Feats  more  chivalric  still  rehearse  ? 

The  feats  of  those, 

Who,  where  his  herd  the  swain  now  leads 
O'er  plains  where  peace  to  war  succeeds, 
Met  and  chastised,  for  barbarous  deeds, 

Their  savage  foes. 

****** 
» *    *    *     *    Be  yours  the  task, 
As  in  Apollo's  rays  you  bask, 

The  Arts  to  lead, 

And  Science,  to  your  fairy  bowers, 
To  charm  them  with  your  tuneful  powers, 
And  crown  them  with  the  choicest  flowers 

To  bards  decreed. 

"  Be  yours  the  office  to  describe 
The  blooming  belles  of  Flora's  tribe  ; 

For,  hidden  here, 
Linnaus'  self  again  might  find 
New  treasures  to  enrich  his  mind, 
To  cultivate  his  taste  refined, 

And  judgment  clear. 

"  Look  through  this  pure  and  fragrant  air, 
To  note  the  volant  minstrels  there, 

As  yet  unknown  ; 

The  finny  race  that  cleave  these  floods  ; 
That  seek  those  fens,  the  reptile  broods  ; 
And  beasts  that  roam  these  boundless  woods, 

So  late  their  own. 
****** 

"Sing  how  the  soil  which  now  we  tread 
Was  once  the  ocean's  coral  bed  ; 

Till,  from  the  strife 
Of  central  fires,  an  earthquake-stroke 
Was  given  ;  the  southern  barrier  broke, 
And  lo !  a  new  creation  woke 

To  light  and  life. 

"  How  then,  these  valleys  wide  along, 
From  northern  lakes  the  currents  strong, 

In  eddying  coil, 

Rushed  southward  with  impetuous  sweep, 
Where  now  but  rills  are  seen  to  creep, 
And  formed  these  vast  alluvions,  deep 

In  fertile  soil. 


And  sing  how  long  these  ramparts  rude, 
Spread  through  the  western  wilds,  have  stood, 

Extended  wide : 

Whether  some  bold  adventurous  host 
Of  white  men,  wrecked  upon  the  coast, 
Could  this  stupendous  labor  boast — 

Then  fled  or  died  : 

1  Or  whether,  whence  old  Ocean  roars 
Round  Asia's  hyperborean  shores, 

The  Tartars  wild 

Here  wandered,  and  these  bulwarks  planned  ; 
Till,  pressed  by  some  more  potent  band, 
They  southward  fled,  and  found  a  laud 

More  fair  and  mild, — 

'  Where,  self-illumed,  from  age  to  age, 
Man  from  a  savage  to  a  sage 

Progressive  grew  ; 
Where,  undisturbed  by  foreign  foe, 
The  infant  Arts  began  to  grow, 
Till  rose  the  towers  of  Mexico 
And  rich  Peru. 

'  Whoe'er  the  builders  may  have  been, 
How  altered  now  the  forest  scene 

From  early  times ! 

The  former  race,  though  rude,  yet  brave, 
Perhaps,  from  death  their  tribes  to  save, 
Forsook  the  land  their  fathers  gave 

For  other  climes. 

'  Now,  'mid  these  shapeless  mounds  of  soil, 
Thrown  up  with  long  laborious  toil, 

And  want  of  skill, 
A  cultivated  landscape  spreads, 
Towns,  villas,  cities  lift  their  heads, 
And  Commerce  her  rich  treasures  leads 

Along  each  rill. 

'  Where  late  the  war-whoop's  hideous  sound 
Alone  disturbed  the  silence  round ; 

Now  thousands  join 
In  sacred  harmony,  to  raise 
The  Christian's  grateful  song  of  praise, 
To  Him  who  beamed  o'er  all  their  ways 

His  light  divine. 

'  Where  late  the  Indian  wigwams  stood, 
Deep  in  the  unbounded  range  of  wood, 

Where  scarce  the  sun 
Could  penetrate  the  twilight-shade  ; 
Now,  domes  of  science  stand  displayed, 
Where  youths  to  fame,  by  learning's  aid, 

Their  journey  run. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


"  Where  lately,  armed  for  deadly  strife 
With  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife, 
The  natives  strove ; 

Now  dove-eyed  Peace  triumphant  reigns, 
And  o'er  the  cultivated  plains, 
In  converse  sweet,  gay  nymphs  and  swains 
Delighted  rove. 

"  Here  pause  ;  and  with  prospective  glass 
Behold  new  ages  as  they  pass 

In  long  review  : 

Behold  the  various  beasts  of  prey, 
And  red  men  more  untamed  than  they, 
Become  extinct,  or  pass  away 

To  regions  new. 

"  See  teeming  cities  rise  beside 
Missouri's  and  Columbia's  tide, 

And  where  the  snow 
On  Chipewan's  high  summit  gleams  ; 
Lo !  fields,  and  meads,  and  lakes,  and  streams, 
Now  open  to  the  sun's  bright  beams, 

Resplendent  glow. 

4<  See  turnpikes  and  canals  connect 
Oceans  which  continents  dissect ; 

See  Trade  rescind 
The  orders  which  she  gave  before, 
And  bring  from  the  Pacific's  shore, 
O'er  western  mountains,  to  each  door 

The  stores  of  Ind. 

u  And  still  to  your  aspiring  song. 
In  common,  other  themes  belong  : 

The  fertile  field, 

Where  nobler  bards  their  laurels  raise 
(A  boon  which  all  their  toil  repays), 
As  large  a  wreath  of  fadeless  bays 

To  you  may  yield. 

"  You,  too,  can  aid  the  noble  task 
Vice  to  expose,  when  she  the  mask 

Of  Virtue  wears ; 

From  scandal's  shafts  the  good  to  save, 
From  coward-tongues  to  shield  the  brave, 
And  show  the  proud  and  wealthy  knave 

The  heart  he  bears. 

"  You,  too,  can  Virtue's  laws  maintain, 
Defend  Religion's  sacred  fane 

'Gainst  atheist-arms ; 
And  from  the  cold  o'erclouded  night 
Of  lone  obscurity,  to  light 
Of  glorious  day,  lead  genius  bright 

In  all  his  charms. 


"  You,  too,  can  run  each  poet's  round, 
Can  wander  wide  o'er  classic  ground, 
In  thoughtful  mood, 
Where  famed  Parnassus  towers  on  high, 
Or  Tempo's  blooming  valleys  lie, 
Or  old  Scamander  wanders  by 

Where  Ilion  stood. 
****** 

"  For  know,  the  Bard  is  Fancy's  child  : 
Whate'er  is  grand,  or  strange,  or  wild, 

His  genius  moves ; 
His  pathway  lies  o'er  fairy-ground, 
Where  Sylphs  and  Genii  guard  him  round  ; 
Through  realms  on  high  and  depths  profound 

His  spirit  roves. 

"  A  hermit  'midst  the  crowd  of  men, 
Through  Nature's  works  his  restive  ken 

Excursive  flies: 

Though  on  the  present  moments  cast, 
He  lives,  in  thought,  through  all  the  past, 
And  those  to  corne,  while  time  shall  last 

To  earth  and  skies. 

"  He  journeys,  careless  of  a  path 
Where  the  rude  tempest  in  its  wrath 

Spreads  ruin  wide  5 

Or  through  the  dense,  untrodden  wood — 
Creation's  gloomiest  solitude — 
O'er  mountains,  by  the  cataract  flood, 

Or  ocean-side. 

"  And  learn  this  truth,  my  pupils  dear, 
Where'er  you  journey,  or  whate'er 

The  plans  you  lay, 

Let  Truth  and  Nature  be  your  guide : 
The  moment  you  desert  their  side, 
Through  trackless  wilds  you  wander  wide, 

And  lose  your  way. 

"  Who  leaves  their  fire,  to  warm  his  heart 
By  the  cold  and  dubious  light  of  Art, 

With  gaudy  flowers 
May  please  young  Fancy  for  a  time, 
And  charm  with  brilliancy  of  rhyme  ; 
But  ne'er  can  reach  the  true  sublime, 

With  all  his  powers. 

"  Art  is  the  ignis  fatuus  ray 
That  leads  the  wanderer's  feet  astray  ; 

Fancy,  a  gleam — 
The  meteor  flashes,  and  'tis  gone  ; 
But  Nature  is  the  unwearied  sun, 
That  gives  whate'er  he  shines  upon 
A  glorious  beam. 


HISTORICAL    SKETCH. 


"  'Tis  mine  your  bosoms  to  inspire 
With  genius'  warmest,  brightest  fire  ; 

'Tis  yours,  in  turn, 

While  pressing  for  the  shrine  of  Fame, 
To  swell  her  records  with  each  name, 
To  make  this  heaven-enkindled  flame 

For  ever  burn. 

"  To  flatter  title,  birth,  or  state, 
The  poorly  rich,  or  meanly  great, 
Was  never  given 
So  rich  a  boon  on  Nature's  part : 
Oh,  never  thus  degrade  an  art, 
Designed  to  lift  the  human  heart 

From  earth  to  heaven  ! 
****** 

"  And  envy  not  the  cobweb-wreaths 
That  many  a  modern  rhymer  weaves, 

His  brows  to  grace  ; 
For  these  are  but  Mimosa's  form 
Amid  Boreas'  wint'ry  storm, 
Or  hoar-frost  'mid  the  blushes  warm 
Of  Phoebus'  face. 

"  And  e'en  the  well-earned  fame  refuse 
Of  Milton's,  Pope's,  and  Thompson's  muse  ; 

Though  fresh  shall  bloom 
Their  laurels  in  the  muse's  page, 
And  each  historian's  pen  engage, 
Though  they  themselves  from  age  to  age 

Sleep  in  the  tomb. 

"  Nay,  copy  not  the  noblest  lays 
Of  ancient  or  of  modern  days. 

The  genuine  bard 
Dashes  all  rules  of  art  aside, 
And,  taking  Nature  for  his  guide, 
Reaps,  as  he  roams  creation  wide, 

A  rich  reward. 

"  For  what,  my  child,  is  genuine  song  ? 
'Tis  not,  as  Fashion's  giddy  throng 

So  often  deem, 

The  far-fetched,  witty,  odd  conceit, 
Which  all  may  write,  as  all  repeat ; 
Nor  number,  measure,  rhyme,  nor  feet 
That  gild  each  theme. 

"  It  is  an  undefined  control 
That  fires,  transports,  illumes  the  soul 

With  secret  sway  5 
And,  reckless  as  to  phrase  or  form, 
Bursts  forth  in  language  bold  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  blazing  through  the  storm 

Of  winter's  day. 


;  'Tis  not  pale  Cynthia's  feeble  light, 
Faint-glimmering  through  a  cheerless  night, 

Cold,  still,  profound  5 
'Tis  not  a  gloomy,  stagnant  lake, 
Whose  sleep  no  babbling  rivulets  break  ; 
'Tis  not  the  breeze  that  scarce  can  wake 

The  echo's  sound. 

"  It  is  the  brilliant  northern  dawn, 
In  all  the  changeful  colors  drawn 

That  bards  describe ; 
'Tis  now  a  river  deep  and  strong, 
Rolling  in  majesty  along  ; 
Anon,  a  whirlwind  'mid  the  throng 

Of  Flora's  tribe. 

'Tis  now  the  thunder's  awful  roar, 
Borne  by  ten  thousand  echoes  o'er 
The  vault  of  heaven  ; 
Now,  the  swift  lightning's  vivid  rays, 
As  o'er  the  clouds  it  lambent  plays  ; 
Anon,  the  dread  volcano's  blaze, 
With  fury  driven. 

'  'Tis  now  the  pine's  majestic  form 
Which,  heedless  of  the  winter's  storm, 

Is  seen  to  bloom 

From  age  to  age  in  youthful  prime  ; 
And  now  a  pyramid  sublime, 
That  falls  but  with  the  fall  of  Time, 

And  shares  his  tomb." 

She  ceased.    Around  her  sainted  head 
An  arrowy  sphere  of  radiance  spread, 

Intensely  bright ; 

And,  mounting  high  on  wings  of  wind, 
She  soared  through  ether  unconfined, 
And  left  a  brilliant  trace  behind, 

Of  vivid  light. 

So,  sinking  in  the  western  main, 
Far  up  the  heaven  a  lucid  train 

Bright  Sol  displays : 
So,  darting  through  exterior  skies, 
In  crimson  paths,  the  fire-ball  flies, 
And  for  a  moment  dims  our  eyes 

With  dazzling  blaze. 

A  holy  silence  reigned  around  ; 
And,  as  I  left  the  enchanted  ground 

Where  late  she  stood, 
Diviner  spirits  hovered  there, 
More  fragrant  breathed  the  balmy  air, 
And  the  full  moon  showed  doubly  fair 

Ohio's  flood. 


JOHN  M.   HARNEY. 


JOHN  M.  HARNEY,  the  second  son  of  Thomas  Harney,  an  officer  in  the  Amer 
ican  army  during  the  war  for  independence,  was  born  on  the  ninth  of  March, 
1789,  in  Sussex  county,  Delaware.  In  the  year  1791,  the  family  emigrated  to  Ten 
nessee,  and  afterward  removed  to  Louisiana.  An  older  brother  became  a  surgeon  in 
the  army,  and  a  younger  one  was  commissioned  as  a  Lieutenant  in  1818.  In  1847 
he  was  brevetted  a  Brigadier  General  for  services  at  Cerro  Gordo,  and  is  now  com 
mander  of  the  American  forces  on  the  Pacific  frontier  of  Oregon. 

John  M.  studied  medicine  and  settled  at  Bards  town,  Kentucky.  In  1814  he  was 
married  to  a  daughter  of  Judge  John  Rowan.  The  death  of  his  wife,  about  four 
years  after  their  wedding,  weighed  so  seriously  upon  him  that  he  abandoned  his  prac 
tice  at  Bardstown,  and,  after  a  brief  visit  to  Tennessee,  went  to  Europe.  He  traveled 
in  Great  Britain,  France  and  Spain.  Then,  receiving  a  naval  appointment,  spent 
several  years  at  Buenos  Ayres.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States,  he  resided  for  a 
few  months  at  Savannah,  Georgia,  where  he  conducted  a  political  newspaper.  Severe 
exertion  at  a  disastrous  fire,  in  that  city,  was  the  cause  of  a  violent  fever  which  under 
mined  his  constitution.  He  returned  to  Bardstown  with  broken  health,  and  died  there 
on  the  fifteenth  of  January,  1825. 

Excepting  "Crystalina,  a  Fairy  Tale,"  in  six  cantos,  which  was  published  in  1816, 
Mr.  Harney's  poems  were  not  given  to  the  world  till  after  his  death.  William  D. 
Gallagher,  who  examined  his  manuscripts,  found  several  poems  he  deemed  superior 
to  any  by  Mr.  Harney  that  have  been  published,  but  we  have  not  been  able  to  obtain 
copies  of  any  of  them.  The  lines,  "  To  a  Valued  Friend,"  "  Eclio  and  the  Lover,"  and 
"The  Whippowill"  were  first  published  in  The  Western  Literary  Journal,  in  1837, 
edited  by  Mr.  Gallagher.  "  The  Echo  "  has  had  as  wide  a  circulation  as  any  poem 
ever  written  in  the  western  country.  It  is  the  original  of  many  verses  on  the  same 
theme,  since  published  both  in  England  and  America.  Respecting  "Crystalina," 
Rufus  Wilmot  Griswold,  in  his  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,  said: 

"  Crystalina  "  was  completed  when  Mr.  Harney  was  about  twenty-three  years  of  age,  but  in  con 
sequence  of  "  the  proverbial  indifference,  and  even  contempt,  with  which  Americans  receive  the 
works  of  their  countrymen,"  he  informs  us,  in  a  brief  preface,  was  not  published  until  181(5,  when 
it  appeared  anonymously  in  New  York.  It  received  much  attention  in  the  leading  literary  journals 
of  that  day.  Its  obvious  faults  were  freely  censured,  but  upon  the  whole  it  was  reviewed  with 
unusual  manifestations  of  kindly  interest.  The  sensitive  poet,  however,  was  so  deeply  wounded  by 
some  unfavorable  criticisms  that  he  suppressed  nearly  all  the  copies  he  had  caused  to  be  printed,  so 
that  it  has  since  been  among  our  rarest  books. 

(  25) 


26  JOHN    M.   HARNEY.  [1820-30. 

The  poem  is  chiefly  founded  upon  superstitions  that  prevailed  among  the  highlands  of  Scotland. 
A  venerable  seer,  named  Altagrand,  is  visited  by  the  knight  Rinaldo,  who  informs  him  that  the 
monarch  of  a  distant  island  had  an  only  daughter,  Crystalina,  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in  love  ; 
that  the  princess  refused  to  marry  him  unless  he  first  distinguished  himself  in  battle ;  that  he 
"plucked  laurel  wreaths  in  danger's  bloody  path,"  and  returned  to  claim  his  promised  reward,  but 
was  informed  of  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  the  maid  of  whose  fate  no  indications  could  be 
di.-covcred,  and  that  he  for  years  had  searched  for  her  in  vain  through  every  quarter  of  the  world. 
He  implores  the  aid  of  the  seer,  who  ascertains  from  familiar  spirits,  summoned  by  his  spells,  that 
Crystalina  has  been  stolen  by  Oberou,  and.  arming  Rinaldo  with  a  cross  and  consecrated  weapons, 
conducts  him  to  a  mystic  circle,  within  which,  upon  the  performance  of  a  described  ceremony,  the 
earth  opens  and  discloses  the  way  to  Fairy  Land.  In  the  second,  third  and  fourth  cantos  are 
related  the  knight's  adventures  in  that  golden  subterranean  realm  ;  the  various  stratagems  and 
enchantments  by  which  its  sovereign  endeavored  to  seduce  or  terrify  him  ;  his  annihilation  of  all 
obstacles  by  exhibiting  the  cross  ;  the  discovery  of  Crystalina,  transformed  into  a  bird,  in  Oberon's 
palace  ;  the  means  by  which  she  was  restored  to  her  natural  form  of  beauty  5  and  the  triumphant 
return  of  the  lovers  to  the  upper  air.  In  the  fifth  and  sixth  cantos,  it  is  revealed  that  Altagrand 
is  the  father  of  Rinaldo,  and  the  early  friend  of  the  father  of  Crystalina,  with  whom  he  had  fought 
in  the  holy  wars  against  the  infidel.  The  king, 

"  inspired  with  joy  and  wine, 

From  his  loose  locks  shook  off  the  snows  of  time," 

and  celebrated  the  restoration  of  his  child  and  his  friend,  and  the  resignation  of  his  crown  to 
Rinaldo,  in  a  blissful  song  : 

"Ye  rolling  streams  make  liquid  melody, 

And  dance  into  the  sea. 
Let  not  rude  Boreas,  on  this  halcyon  day, 

Forth  in  his  stormy  chariot  be  whirled ; 
Let  not  a  cloud  its  raven  wings  display, 

Nor  shoot  the  oak-rending  lightnings  at  the  world. 
Let  Jove,  auspicious,  from  his  red  right  hand, 

Lay  down  his  thunder  brand — 
A  child  I  lost,  but  two  this  day  have  found, 

Let  the  earth  shout,  and  let  the  skies  resound. 

"  Let  Atropos  forego  her  dismal  trade, 

And  cast  her  fatal,  horrid  shears  away, 
While  Lachesis  spins  out  a  firmer  thread ; 

Let  hostile  armies  hold  a  truce  to-day, 
And  grim -faced  war  wash  white  his  gory  hand, 

And  smile  around  the  land — 
A  child  I  lost,  but  two  this  day  have  found, 

Let  the  earth  shout,  and  let  the  skies  resound. 

"  Let  all  the  stars  of  influence  benign, 

This  sacred  night  in  heavenly  synod  meet, 
Let  Mars  and  Venus  be  in  happy  trine. 

And  on  the  wide  world  look  with  aspect  sweet; 
And  let  the  mystic  music  of  the  spheres 

Bo  audible  to  mortal  ears — 
A  child  I  lost,  but  two  this  day  have  found, 

Then  shout,  oh  earth,  and  thou,  oh  sea,  resound." 

In  1816,  Mr.  John  Neal  was  editing  The  Portico,  a  monthly  magazine  at  Baltimore,  and  he 
reviewed  this  poem  in  a  long  and  characteristic  article.  After  remarking  that  it  was  "  the  most 
-plendid  production  "  that  ever  came  before  him,  he  says  :  "  We  can  produce  passages  from  ;  Crys 
talina  '  which  have  not  been  surpassed  in  our  language.  Spenser  himself,  who  seemed  to  have 
condensed  all  the  radiance  of  fairy-land  upon  his  starry  page,  never  dreamed  of  more  exquisitely 
fanciful  scenery  than  that  which  our  bard  has  sometimes  painted.  .  .  .  Had  this  poet  written 
before  Shakspeare  and  Spenser,  lie  would  have  been  acknowledged  '  the  child  of  fancy.'  .... 
Had  he  dared  to  think  for  himself— to  blot  out  some  passages,  which  his  judgment,  we  are  sure. 
could  not  have  approved— the  remainder  would  have  done  credit  to  any  poet,  living  or  dead." 


1820-30.] 


JOHN   M.   HARNEY. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  CRYSTALINA." 
SYLPHS  BATHING. 

THE  shores  with  acclamations  rung, 
As  in  the  flood  the  playful  damsels  sprung: 
Upon  their  beauteous  bodies,  with  delight, 
The  billows  leapt.  Oh,  'twas  a  pleasant  sight 
To  see  the  waters  dimple  round,  for  joy, 
Climb    their   white   necks,  and   on   their 

bosoms  toy : 

Like  snowy  swans  they  vex'd  the  spark 
ling  tide, 

Till  little  rainbows  danced  on  every  side, 
Some  swam,  some  floated,  some  on  pearly 

feet 
Stood  sidelong,  smiling,  exquisitely  sweet. 

TITANIA;S  CONCERT. 

In  robes  of  green,  fresh  youths  the  concert 

led, 
Measuring  the  while,  with  nice,  emphatic 

tread 

Of  tinkling  sandals,  the  melodious  sound 
Of  smitten  timbrels ;    some  with  myrtles 

crown'd, 

Pour  the  smooth  current  of  sweet  melody, 
Through  ivory  tubes ;  some  blow  the  bugle 

free, 

And  some,  at  happy  intervals  around, 
With  trumps  sonorous  swell  the  tide  of 

sound ; 
Some,  bending  raptured  o'er  their  golden 

lyres, 

With  cunning  fingers  fret  the  tuneful  wires ; 
With  rosy  lips  some  press  the  siren  shell, 
And,  through  its  crimson  labyrinths,  impel 
Mellifluous  breath,  with  artful  sink  and 

swell. 

Some  blow  the  mellow,  melancholy  horn, 
Which,  save  the  knight,  no  man  of  woman 

born 
E'er  heard  and   fell  not  senseless  to  the 

ground, 
With    viewless    fetters    of     enchantment 

bound. 


.  .  .  .  "Thrice  had  yon  moon  her  pearly 

chariot  driven 

Across  the  starry  wilderness  of  heaven, 
In  lonely  grandeur;  thrice  the  morning  star 
Danced  on  the  eastern  hills  before  Hype 
rion's  car." 


.  .  .  .  "Deep  silence  reigned,  so  still,  so 

deep,  and  dread, 
That  they  might  hear  the  fairy's  lightest 

tread, 

Might  hear  the  spider  as  he  wove  his  snare, 
From  rock  to  rock." 

.  .  .  .  "The  mountain-tops,  oak-crowned, 
Tossed   in  the  storm  and  echoed  to  the 

sound 
Of    trees   uptorn,   and    thunders    rolling 

round." 

.  .  .  .  "The  prowlers  of  the  wood 

Fled  to  their  caves,  or,  crouching  with 
alarm, 

Howled  at  the  passing  spirits  of  the  storm ; 

Eye-blasting  specters  and  bleached  skele 
tons 

With  snow-white  raiment  and  disjointed 
bones, 

Before  them  strode,  and  meteors  flickering 
dire, 

Around  them  trailed  their  scintillating  fire." 

.  .  .  .  "The  fearless  songsters  sing, 
And  round  me  flutter  with  familiar  wing, 
Or 'mid  the  flowers  like  sunbeams  glance 

about, 
Sipping,  with  slender  tongues,  the  dainty 

nectar  out." 

.  .  .  .  "Morn  ascending  from  the  spark 
ling  main, 

Unlocked  her  golden  magazines  of  light, 

And  on  the  sea,  and  heaven's  cerulean 
plain, 

Showered  liquid  rubies,  while  retreating 
night 

In  other  climes  her  starred  pavilion  spread." 


28 


JOHN    M.    HARNEY. 


[1820-30. 


THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

A  FEVER  scorched  my  body,  fired  my 

brain, 

Like  lava  in  Vesuvius,  boiled  my  blood 
Within  the  glowing  caverns  of  my  heart. 
I  raged  with  thirst,  and  begged  a  cold,  clear 

draught 
Of   fountain   water. — 'Twas   with   tears 

denied. 

I  drank  a  nauseous  febrifuge,  and  slept ; 
But   rested    not — harassed    with    horrid 

dreams 

Of  burning  deserts,  and  of  dusty  plains, 
Mountains  disgorging  flames — forests  on 

fire, 
Steam,  sunshine,  smoke,  and  ever-boiling 

lakes — 
Hills  of  hot  sand,  and  glowing  stones  that 

seemed 
Embers  and  ashes  of  a  burnt  up  world! 

Thirst  raged  within  me. — I  sought  the 

deepest  vale, 
And  called  on  all  the  rocks  and  caves  for 

water;  — 

I  climbed  a  mountain,  and  from  cliff  to  cliff 
Pursued    a    flying     cloud,     howling    for 

water:  — 
I  crushed  the  withered  herbs,  and  gnawed 

dry  roots, 
Still  crying,  Water! — While  the  cliffs  and 

caves, 

In  horrid  mockery,  re-echoed  "Water!" 
Below  the  mountain  gleamed  a  city,  red 
With  solar  flame,  upon  the  sandy  bank 
Of  a  broad  river. — "  Soon,  oh  soon !"  I  cried, 
"  I'll  cool  my  burning  body  in  that  flood, 
And  quaff  my  fill." — I  ran — I  reached  the 

shore. 

The  river  was  dried  up.     Its  oozy  bed 
Was  dust;  and  on  its  arid  rocks,  I  saw 
The  scaly  myriads  fry  beneath  the  sun ! 
When-  sank  the  channel  deepest,  I  beheld 
A  stirring  multitude  of  human  forms, 
And  heard  a  faint,  wild,  lamentable  wail. 


Thither  I  sped,  and  joined  the  general  cry 
Of  "  Water!"  They  had  delved  a  spacious 

pit 
In  search  of  hidden  fountains;    sad,  sad 

sight! 

I  saw  them  rend  the  rocks  up  in  their  rage, 
With  mad  impatience  calling  on  the  earth 
To  open  and  yield  up  her  cooling  springs. 

Meanwhile   the   skies,   on    which   they 

dared  not  gaze, 

Stood  o'er  them  like  a  canopy  of  brass — 
Undimmed  by  moisture.    The  red  dog-star 

raged, 

And  Pho3bus  from  the  house  of  Virgo  shot 
His  scorching  shafts.     The  thirsty  multi 
tude 
Grew  still  more  frantic.     Those  who  dug 

the  earth 
Fell  lifeless  on  the  rocks  they  strained  to 

upheave, 

And  filled  again,  with  their  own  carcasses, 
The  pits  they  made — undoing  their  own 

work ! 

Despair  at  length  drove  out  the  laborers, 
At  sight  of   whom  a  general   groan   an 
nounced 
The  death  of  hope.     Ah!  now  no  more 

was  heard 

The  cry  of  "Water!"     To  the  city  next, 
Howling,  we  ran  —  all  hurrying  without 

aim: — 
Thence  to  the  woods.      The  baked  plain 

gaped  for  moisture, 
And  from  its  arid  breast  heaved  smoke, 

that  seemed 

Breath  of  a  furnace — fierce,  volcanic  fire, 
Or  hot  simoom,  that  raises  Syrian  sands 
To  clouds.     Amid  the  forests  we  espied 
A  faint  and  bleating  herd.     Sudden  a  shrill 
And  horrid  shout  arose  of  "  Blood !  blood ! 

blood !" 

We  fell  upon  them  with  a  tiger's  thirst, 
And  drank  up  all  the  blood  that  was  not 

human ! 
We  were  dyed  in  blood !    Despair  returned ; 


1820-30.] 


JOHN    M.    HARNEY. 


2!) 


The  cry  was  hushed,  and  dumb  confusion 

reigned. 
Even  then,  when  hope  was  dead ! — all  past 

hope — 

I  heard  a  laugh!  and  saw  a  wretched  man 
Rip  madly  his  own  veins,  and   bleeding, 

drink 
"With  eager  joy.     The  example  seized  on 

all:— 

Each  fell  upon  himself,  tearing  his  veins 
Fiercely  in  search  of  blood!     And  some 

there  were, 
Who,  having  emptied  their  own  veins,  did 

seize 
Their  neighbors'  arms,  and  slay  them  for 

their  blood. 
Oh!  happy  then  were  mothers  who  gave 

suck. 
They  dashed  their  little  infants  from  their 

breasts, 

And  their  shrunk  bosoms  tortured  to  extract 
The  balmy  juice,  oh!  exquisitely  sweet 
To  their  parched  tongues !  '  Tis  done ! — now 

all  is  gone! 
Blood,  water,  and  the  bosom's  nectar, — all ! 

"Rend,  oh!    ye  lightnings!    the  sealed 

firmament, 
And  flood  a  burning  world. — Rain  !  rain ! 

pour!  pour! 

Open,  ye  windows  of  high  heaven !  and  pour 
The  mighty  deluge!     Let  us  drown,  and 

drink 
Luxurious  death!     Ye  earthquakes,  split 

the  globe, 
The  solid,  rock-ribbed  globe!   and  lay  all 

bare 
Its  subterranean  rivers,  and  fresh  seas !" 

Thus  raged  the  multitude.  And  many  fell 
In  fierce  convulsions; — many  slew  them 
selves. 

And  now  I  saw  the  city  all  in  flames — 
The  forest  burning — and  the  very  earth  on 
fire! 


I  saw  the  mountains  open  with  a  roar, 
Loud  as  the  seven  apocalyptic  thunders, 
And  seas  of  lava  rolling  headlong  down, 
Through  crackling  forests  fierce,  and  hot 

as  hell, 
Down  to  the  plain. — I  turned  to  fly, 

and  waked ! 


ECHO  AND  THE  LOVER. 

Lover.  Echo !  mysterious  nymph,  declare 
Of  what  you're  made  and  what  you 
are — 

"Air!" 


Echo. 
Lover. 

Echo. 
Lover. 

Echo. 
Lover. 
Echo. 
Lover. 
Echo. 
Lover. 

Echo. 
Lover. 
Echo. 
Lover. 
Echo. 


'Mid  airy  cliffs,  and  places  high, 
Sweet  Echo !    listening,  love,  you 
lie— 

"You  lie!" 

You  but  resuscitate  dead  sounds — 
Hark !  how  my  voice  revives,  re 
sounds  ! 

"Zounds!" 

I'll  question  you  before  I  go — 
Come,  answer  me  more  apropos ! 
"Poh!  poh!" 

Tell  me,  fair  nymph,  if  e'er  you  saw 
So  sweet  a  girl  as  Phoebe  Shaw ! 
"Pshaw!" 

Say,  what  will  win    that   frisking 

coney 
Into  the  toils  of  matrimony! 

"Money!" 

Has  Phcebe  not  a  heavenly  brow ! 
Is  it  not  white  as  pearl — as  snow! 
"Ass,  no ! " 

Her  eyes  !     "Was  ever  such  a  pair ! 
Are  the  stars  brighter  than  they  arc : 
"They  are!" 


so 


JOHN    M.    HARNEY. 


[1820-30. 


L'>ci-r.  Echo,  you  lie,  but  can't  deceive  me ; 
Her  eyes  eclipse  the  stars,  believe 

me — 
Echo.  "Leave  me!" 

Lover.  But  come,  you  saucy,  pert  romancer, 
Who  is  as  fair  as  Phoebe?  answer. 
Echo.  "Ann,  sir!" 


THE  WIIIPPOWILL. 

THERE  is  a  strange,  mysterious  bird, 
Which  few  have  seen,  but  all  have  heard: 
He  sits  upon  a  fallen  tree, 
Through  all  the  night,  and  thus  sings  he : 

Whippowill ! 

Whippowill ! 

Whippowill ! 

Despising  show,  and  empty  noise, 
The  gaudy  fluttering  thing  he  flies : 
And  in  the  echoing  vale  by  night 
Thus  sings  the  pensive  anchorite : 
Whippowill ! 

Oh,  had  I  but  his  voice  and  wings, 
I'd  envy  not  a  bird  that  sings  ; 
But  gladly  would  I  flit  away, 
And  join  the  wild  nocturnal  lay: 

WThippowill ! 

Tin-  school-boy,  tripping  home  in  haste, 
Impatient  of  the  night's  repast, 
Would  stop  to  hear  my  whistle  shrill, 
And  answer  me  with  mimic  skill : 
Whippowill ! 


The  rich  man's  scorn,  the  poor  man's  care, 
Folly  in  silk,  and  Wisdom  bare, 
Virtue  on  foot,  and  Vice  astride, 
No  more  should  vex  me  while  I  cried : 
Whippowill ! 

How  blest! — Nor  loneliness  nor  state, 
Nor  fame,  nor  wealth,  nor  love,  nor  hate, 
Nor  av'rice,  nor  ambition  vain, 
Should  e'er  disturb  my  tranquil  strain : 

Whippowill ! 

Whippowill ! 

Whippowill ! 


ON  A  VALUED  FRIEND. 

DEVOUT,  yet  cheerful ;  pious,  not  austere ; 
To  others  lenient,  to  himself  severe ; 
Tho'  honored,  modest ;  diffident,  tho'  prais'd ; 
The  proud  he  humbled,  and  the  humble 

rais'd ; 
Studious,   yet  social;    though   polite,  yet 

plain ; 

No  man  more  learned,  yet  no  man  less  vain. 
His  fame  would  universal  envy  move, 
But  envy's  lost  in  universal  love. 
That  he  has  faults,  it  may  be  bold  to  doubt, 
Yet  certain  'tis  we  ne'er  have  found  them 

out. 
If  faults  he  has   (as  man,  'tis  said,  must 

have), 

They  are  the  only  faults  he  ne'er  forgave. 
I  flatter  not :  absurd  to  flatter  where 
Just  praise  is  fulsome,  and  offends  the  ear. 


PEYTON  SHORT  SYMMES. 


PEYTON  SHORT  SYMMES,  a  nephew  of  John  Cleves  Symmes,  the  well  known  pio 
neer  of  the  Miami  purchase,  may  be  recorded  as  one  of  the  earliest  bards  of  the  West. 
He  is  very  nearly  of  the  same  age  as  the  city  of  Cincinnati.  He  saw  the  first  Legisla 
ture  of  the  North- West  Territory  in  session  in  Cincinnati,  in  1799,  and  he  was  a  wit 
ness  of  the  festivities  in  honor  of  the  visit  of  the  Legislatures  of  Tennessee,  Kentucky 
and  Ohio  to  that  city,  in  January,  1860.  His  recollections  of  men  and  places,  of  writ 
ers,  of  periodicals  and  of  books,  extend  over  the  entire  history  of  literary  enterprises 
in  Ohio.  He  deserves  to  be  remembered,  not  only  for  what  he  has  written,  but  for 
what  he  has  done  to  encourage  others  to  write.  For  fifty  years  at  least  he  has  been 
the  ready  referee  on  questions  of  art  and  literature  for  nearly  all  the  journalists  and 
authors  of  Cincinnati,  and  a  kindly  critic  for  the  inexperienced  who,  before  rushing 
into  print,  were  wise  enough  to  seek  good  advice. 

In  1817,  and  for  many  years  thereafter,  Mr.  Symmes  was  Register  of  the  Land  Of 
fice  at  Cincinnati.  From  1830  to  1833  he  was  a  member  of  the  City  Council.  In  1833 
he  was  chosen  one  of  the  School  Trustees,  and  until  1849  was  an  active  member  of 
that  Board.  Several  of  its  most  elaborate  reports  were  from  his  pen.  From  1830  to 
1850  he  was  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Health.  We  remember  him  well  in  that  ca 
pacity,  as  a  self-sacrificing  public  servant,  when,  in  1849,  the  cholera  was  epidemic  in 
Cincinnati. 

Mr.  Symmes  was  one  of  the  Trustees  of  the  old  Cincinnati  College,  and  an  earnest 
supporter  of  the  Western  College  of  Teachers  which  met  annually  in  Cincinnati,  from 
1831  till  1845.  He  was  identified  with  nearly  all  the  early  literary  societies  of  that 
city.  In  1816  he  wrote  the  New  Year's  Lay  for  the  carriers  of  the  Cincinnati  Ga 
zette.  Those  carriers  were  Wesley  Smead — since  well  known  as  a  Banker — and  Ste 
phen  S.  L'Hommedieu,  now  known  throughout  the  West  as  the  President  of  the  Hamil 
ton  and  Dayton  Railroad.  The  "  Lines  on  Winter,"  hereafter  quoted,  are  from  that 
lay.  In  1824-25,  Mr.  Symmes  was  one  of  the  principal  writers  for  the  Literary  Ga 
zette — edited  and  published  for  two  years  by  John  P.  Foote,  then  a  bookseller — a  quarto 
journal  which  appeared  semi-monthly.  It  was  conducted  with  spirit  and  good  taste. 
Its  chief  contributors  were  Benjamin  Drake,  Ethan  Allen  Brown,  Fitz  Greene  Hal- 
lock,  John  H.  James,  Julia  L.  Dumont,  Thomas  Peirce,  Daniel  Drake,  John  P. 
Durbin,  John  Locke,  David  T.  Disney,  and  Mr.  Symmes. 

For  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle,  conducted  by  Benjamin  Drake,  in  1826,  and  the 
Mirror,  edited  by  Wm.  D.  Gallagher,  between  1831  and  1835,  Mr.  Symmes  wrote 
often  both  in  prose  and  verse.  In  later  years  he  has  rarely  written  for  either  news 
papers  or  magazines,  but  it  is  understood  that  he  has  been  preparing  a  biography  of 
his  uncle,  John  Cleves  Symmes.  We  trust  it  will  be  completed,  because  it  must  pos 
sess  peculiar  interest,  as  a  picture  of  early  times  in  the  West. 

(31  ) 


PEYTON   SHORT    SYMMES. 


[1820-30. 


LINES  ON  WINTER. 

FROM  THE   NEW  TEAR'S    LAY   FOR  THE  CINCINNATI   GAZETTE, 
1816. 

THE  northern  blast  is  loud  and  shrill, 
The  streamlet's  gurgling  voice  is  still ! 
Win -re  gabbling  broods  disported  late, 
The  urchin  now  applies  the  skate ; 
And  where  so  lately  sailed  the  boat, 
Xo»v    but   the    crashing  ice-cakes  float ! 

The  sylvan  meads  present  no  more 
The  verdant  hues  they  gave  before; 
And  leafless,  hoar,  and  rugged,  now, 
How  bleakly  waves  the  forest  bough ! 

E'en  the  plumed  warblers  of  the  wild, 
Whose  notes  our  sultry  hours  beguiled, 
No  longer  give  the  melting  strain, 
But  seek  their  wint'ry  haunts  again. 

The  fainting  sun,  above,  displays 
His  feeble  warmth  and  glimmering  rays ; — 
And  in  a  winding-sheet  of  snow, 
All  nature  seems  to  sleep  below ! 

And  yet,  tho'  winter  may  appear 
Thus  gloomy,  and  devoid  of  cheer;  — 
Tho'  comfort  may  be  thought  to  flow 
But  coldly  o'er  a  waste  of  snow  ;  — 
Still  may  the  hearth  where  friends  combine, 
Ami  bend  before  the  social  shrine, 
Give  pleasures  more  than  half  divine ! 

How  sweet  around  the  Christmas  fire, 
To  gaze  and  listen,  and  admire, 
AY  hen  beauty's  fairy  fingers  fly, 
And  wake  the  harp's  wild  melody ! 
Or.  as  her  magic  voice  refines 
Some  favored  minstrel's  glowing  lines, 
ITow  sweet  to  find  tin-  poet's  tone 
And  feeling,  heightened  by  her  own!  — 
Or,  elo-ed  each  fascinating  page 
Of  Hirhisomo  bard,  or  reverend  sage, — 
ITow  dear  with  her,  for  hours  to  range 
In  that  harmonious  interchange 
Of  kind  and  varied  converse  gay, 
Which  drives  all  earthly  cares  away! 

Or,  changed  the  scene, — with  what  de 
light, 


Through  half  the  festive  winter's  night, 

We  prize  the  oft  repeated  chance 

To  weave  with  her  the  sprightly  dance : 

Whose  "  poetry  of  motion  "  seems 

To  realize  Elysian  dreams, — 

And  shows,  e'en  lovelier  than  before, 

The  Maid  we,  next  to  Heaven,  adore  ! 

Yet,  dearer  far  than  all  that  e'er 
Ev'n  graced  the  merriest  Christmas  cheer, 
Is  that  short  soul-enlivening  sound 
Which  heals  the  impassioned  lover's  wound, 
And  gains  him, — o'er  each  peril  past, 
The  haven  of  his  hopes  at  last ! 
For  O  !  who  yet  untaught  can  guess  ; — 
Or  who,  that  knows,  with  human  powers 

express 
His   high-toned  raptures  at   the  favoring 

"Yes!"' 


SONNET  TO  HEALTH. 

PARAPHRASED     FROM    DR.    JOHNSON'S    PROSE    TRANSLATION 

OF  ARISTOGITON'S  GREEK  HYMN  TO  HEALTH. 

HAIL  sovereign  health ! — Heav'n's  earli 
est  boon  to  earth ! 

With  thee  let  all  my  future  hours  be  passed ! 
While  o'er  our  forms  thy  fairy  robe  is  cast, 
Lo,  sadness  flies  before  the  voice  of  mirth ! 
For,  all  the  charms  that  lurk  in  Beauty's 

wile, 
In  love-encircled  homes,— or  mines  of 

gold,— 
Deprived  of  thee,  are  cheerless,  dim  and 

cold, — 
And,   ev'n   imperial   splendor   courts  thy 

smile ! 
Nay — 'mid  the  highest  forms    of  earthly 

joy, 

With  which  Celestials  soften  human 
cares, 

To  Thee  we  still  prefer  our  ardent  pray 
ers, 


1820-30.] 


PEYTON   SHORT    S  Y  M M E  S . 


For  tliou,  alone,  hast  charms  that  never 
cloy. 

Thy  kindling  smile  misfortune's  eye  re 
lumes  ; 

And  in  thy  roseate  bowers,  the  spring  of 
pleasure  blooms! 


APPEAL  FOR  GREECE.* 

WHEN  lowly   merit   feels    misfortune's 

blow, 

And  seeks  relief  from  penury  and  woe, — 
How  bounds  with  rapture  every  generous 

heart, 

To  share  its  treasures,  and  its  hopes  im 
part,— 

As,  rising  o'er  the  sordid  lust  of  gold, 
It  shows  the  impress  of  a  heavenly  mould ! 

And,  if  a  single  sufferer  thus  may  find 
Each    eye   o'erflowing,  and   each    bosom 

kind, — 
How  should  we  feel  when  nations  rend  the 

air 

"With  blended  shouts  of  victory  or  despair! 
How  feel,  when  glorious  Greece  herself 

appears, — 

Sublime  o'er  ruins  of  a  thousand  years, — 
Recites  the  harrowing  story  of  her  woes, 
Since  first  the  Turkish  crescent  o'er  her 

rose, — 

And  asks  of  free  America  the  aid 
Which  lies  in  every  freeman's  heart  and 

blade ! 

Such  is  the  land  which  now  contends 

alone, 
In  proud  defiance  of  a  tyrant's  throne; — 


*  Recited  by  the  author  in  the  Cincinnati  theater.  Feb 
ruary  24th,  1824,  at  a  Thespian  performance  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Greeks,  which  resulted  in  a  contribution  of  $300  to 
the  Greek  fund  in  New  York. 


Beneath  whose  sway  for  centuries  she  bore 
The  wrongs  and  suff'rings  she  shall  feel 
no  more! 


The  long  dark  night  of  stern  oppression's 

reign 

At  last  is  o'er, — and  freedom  smiles  again ; 
Smiles  to  behold  how  all-defacing  Time 
Has   swept    in  vain   o'er   that    delightful 

clime, — 

Nor  yet  subdued  the  spirit  which,  of  yore 
Shed  glory's  halo  round  her  classic  shore ! 
What  though  her  towers  are  fall'n,  her 

arts  decayed, 
Not  time  alone  the  mournful  change  hath 

made : — 
'Twas  slavery's  mildew-breath,  and  rapine's 

sway, 
That    tore    her     sculptured     monuments 

away, — 

Till  ev'n  within  Minerva's  sacred  dome, 
The  mosque  has  found  a  desolated  home ! 

And  shall  Columbia's  rulers  coldly  stand, 
With  listless  gaze  and  unextended  hand, 
Till  Greece,  regenerate,  shall  her  freedom 

find, — 

Or  firmer  fetters  tyranny  rebind? 
Must  Greece,  the  inspiring  theme  of  bard 

and  sage, 

The  pride  of  every  lettered  clime  and  age, — 
Pressed  by  her  impious  foemen,  vainly 

strive 

To  keep  the  hallowed  flame  of  hope  alive 
Without  one  friendly  arm  the  sword  to 

wield, 

In  freedom's  cause,  on  glory's  battle-field  ? 
Forbid  it,  heaven ! — or  be  the  tale  unknown 
That  'twas  not  thus  our  sires  achieved  their 

own ! 

In  vain  her  poets  sung,  her  heroes  fought ; 
In  vain  her  sages  stretched  the  bounds  of 

thought ; 
And,  vainly,  matchless  Phidias  toiled  for 

fame, — 


3 


PEYTON    S  HORT    S  VM  M  BS. 


Should  now  a  thankless  world  deny  the 

claim ! 

And  yet,  when  in  our  councils  lately  rose 
Tin-  voice  of  sympathy  for  Grecian  woes, 
The  noblest  efforts  of  her  champions 

failed, — 
And  cold  mistrust  o'er  eloquence  prevailed! 

Yet,  though  our  cautious  country  may 

not  send 

Her  fleet,  the  cause  of  freedom  to  defend, — 
Lest  allied  jealousy  the  act  should  view 
As    fraught    with    danger  to  the    kingly 

crew : — 
Though  by  our  statesmen   it   is   deemed 

unsafe 

The  angry  lions  in  their  lair  to  chafe, — 
Lest  we  should  rouse  them  to  a  nimbler  leap, 
O'er  the  rude  surges  of  the  "vasty  deep," 
And   find  too  late,  by  savage  force  o'er- 

powered, 

We  are  not  ev'n  the  last  to  be  devoured: — 
Though  neither  Turkish  faith  nor  Moslem 

laws 

Must  be  invaded — ev'n  in  the  sacred  cause 
Which  aims  to  rescue  from  enthralling 

chains, 

Heroic  millions, — in  whose  fervid  veins 
The  swelling  current  of  the  patriot  flows, — 
In  whose  proud  hearts  the  Spartan's  ardor 

glows : 

Though  nothing  now, alas!  she  dares  to  give 
To  her  who  nobly  scorns  in  chains  to  live ! — 
Still  may  each  kindred  spirit  plead  her 

cause, 
Nor  wait   the   lingering   sanction  of  our 

laws ; — 
Still  may  our  Thespian  band  the  tribute 

Which  from  the  ruthless  spoiler  rends  his 

prey  ; 

And  waft  to  that  loved  land  the  drama's  aid 
Amid  whose  groves  the  young  Thalia 

strayed, 
And   all   the   tuneful   nine  their   earlies 

powers  displayed. 


Nor  shall    the    boon    be    lost; — though 

small  the  sum, 
Twill  nerve  the  warrior's  arm  when  perils 

come, 

To  know  a  Christian  people's  prayers  arise, 
With  hope-inspiring  ardor,  to  the  skies, — 
That  heaven's  almighty  arm  may  interpose, 
And  Greece  be  rescued  from  her  direst 
foes! 


POETIC  ADDRESS.* 

BY  nature's  holiest  sympathies  impress'd 
With   filial    reverence    swelling   in    each 

breast, 

We  meet  to-day  around  the  festive  board — 
With  more  than  viands,  arid  libations 

stored : 
Here  memory  comes,  through  time's  dim 

vail  to  cast 

Her  varied  lights  and  shadows  o'er  the  past; 
And  hope  amid  the  joyous  group  appears, 
To  gild  the  visions  of  our  future  years ! 

How    green    the    woodlands,    and   how 

bright  the  sky, 
That  mark  youth's  glowing  scenes  in  man 
hood's  eye, — 

As  rising  all  unbidden  to  the  view, 
They  tinge  with  rosy  light  life's  dark'ning 

hue! 

— And  yet,  alas,  too  oft  they  may  recall 
The  saddening  vision  of  some  funeral  pall; 
And  wake  the  filial  tears  of  fond  regret, 
O'er  those  whose  sun  of  life  too  early  set ! 


*  Extracted  from  the  proceedings  of  the  Buckeye  and 
Pioneer  Festival,  held  at  Cincinnati,  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  Pilgrim  lauding,  Dec.  26,  1834.  " 9th  toast:  JOHN 
CLEVES  SYMMES  [The  departed  patriarch  of  the  Miami 
purchase]:  Each  city,  town  and  village,  that  dots  the 
green  banks  of  his  beloved  MIAMI s,  adds  but  another 
monument  to  his  memory  !  " 


1820-30.] 


PEYTON    SHORT    SYMMES. 


36 


Even  now,  though  dimly,  I  behold  again 
The  vision  of  that  long  funereal  train  ; 
By  whom, — from  life's  sad  cares  too  rudely 

torn, — 
Our  coffn'd  "Patriarch"  to  the  grave  was 

borne : — 
When  he  whose  name  your  annals  have 

enshrined 

(Th'  unselfish  benefactor  of  his  kind  !) 
Was  laid, — where  still  affection  lingering 

grieves, — 
Near  his  loved  home — among  the  hills  of 

CLEVES. 

Thrice  fifteen  summers  have  their  foliage 

cast, 

In  golden  showers,  on  autumn's  fitful  blast, 
Since  first  our  SIRES,  by  beck'ning  hopes 

allured, 
In    yonder   cove,   their   ice-worn   vessels 

moored. 

— At  only  two-score  years,  I  cannot  claim 
The  memory  that  should  give  their  deeds 

to  fame ; — 
But,  for  those  SIRES — the  day  will  surely 

come 
When  hist'ry's  voice  no  longer  shall  be 

dumb! 

Where   stands   this   Hall,  how  oft  the 

startled  deer 

Fled  from  the  wood-notes  of  the  pioneer, 
As  round  him  the  primeval  forest  bowed, 
And  rude  huts  rose  to  greet  the  coming 

crowd ! 


Aye, — and  how  oft,  beneath  those  peopled 
sheds, 

Where  forest  skins  supplied  the  uncur 
tained  beds, 

The  death-doomed  inmates  woke,  with 
shuddering  fear, 

Th'  appalling  yells  of  savage  hordes  to  hear ! 

How  changed  the  scene,  since  first,  with 

youthful  eyes, 
I  saw  th'  o'ershadowing  woods  in  grandeur 

rise, 
And  blithely  sought  (alas,  where  are  they 

now?) 

The   flower-decked   mound,  and   vine-en 
cumbered  bough; — 
Or  roamed,  perchance,  along  the  nut-strewn 

vale, 
Wooed  by  the  promise  of  th'  autumnal 

gale ; — 
Or,   bathed   in    yonder  stream's    pellucid 

flood, 
Ere  slaughtered  herds  had  dyed  it  with 

their  blood ! 

Through  the  long  vista  of  departed  years, 
The  kindling  eye  now  gazes — dimmed  with 

tears ; 
And  now,  with  magic   power,  behold,  it 

brings 

The  sweets  of  memory — without  its  stings ! 
****** 

But,  tongues  more  tuneful  shall  these  scenes 

rehearse, — 
For  mine  but  heralds  many  a  nobler  verse. 


THOMAS  PEIRCE. 


THOMAS  PEIRCE,  author  of  "The  Muse  of  Hesperia,"  the  prize  poem  of  the  Cin 
cinnati  Philomathic  Society,  was  born  in  Chester  county,  Pennsylvania,  on  the  fourth 
day  of  August,  1786.  His  father  died  in  1791,  when  Thomas  was  five  years  old. 
Soon  afterward  he  was  obliged  to  support  himself.  He  worked  on  a  farm  in  summer, 
and  attended  school  in  winter,  till  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  when  he  engaged  him 
self  to  a  saddle  and  harness  maker  for  five  years.  In  that  time  he  became  a  skillful 
workman,  but  was  not  contented  with  his  occupation,  and  having  been  an  attentive 
student  of  books,  as  well  as  an  industrious  apprentice,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  secur 
ing  an  opportunity  to  teach  a  district  school.  When  he  was  twenty-four  years  of  age 
he  attended  a  Quaker  Boarding  School  at  New  Garden,  in  his  native  county,  for  the 
purpose  of  pursuing  mathematical  studies,  in  which  he  took  great  pleasure.  After 
ward  he  taught  a  common  school  in  Philadelphia. 

The  tide  of  emigration  then  set  steadily  for  Ohio,  and  in  1813  Mr.  Peirce  was  car 
ried  with  it  to  Cincinnati.  He  immediately  engaged  in  mercantile  business  and  was 
prosperous.  In  1815  he  married  Elizabeth  Neave.  Forming  a  partnership  with  his 
father-in-law,  Jeremiah  Neave,  he  was  an  energetic  merchant  until  1822 ;  then,  meet 
ing  reverses,  he  retired  from  active  business  and  studied  medicine.  He  obtained  a 
diploma,  and  was  about  to  begin  practice,  when,  in  1827,  he  was  induced  to  resume 
the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  a  merchant.  He  was  an  influential  and  useful  citi 
zen  of  Cincinnati  till  1850,  when  he  died. 

Very  soon  after  he  became  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati,  Mr.  Peirce  manifested  decided 
literary  taste.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest  as  well  as  most  active  promoters  of  art  and 
literature  in  the  young  city.  In  1821  he  contributed  a  series  of  satirical  odes  to  the 
H'rsfern  Spy  and  Literary  Cadet,  which  were  entitled  "  Horace  in  Cincinnati."  They 
nmtained  provoking  caricatures,  and  many  witty  exposures  of  local  folly,  and  were  so 
much  sought  for  that,  the  following  year,  they  were  collected  and  published  in  a  small 
volume  by  George  W.  Harrison,  forming  the  first  book  of  what  might,  in  all  respects, 
be  termed  Western  Poetry. 

The  following  stanzas,  from  the  thirty-first  ode  (the  last  of  the  series),  expressing 
thanks  to  the  Ohio  Legislature,  fairly  represent  the  spirit  of  Horace : 

For  having  long  discussed  a  law, 

In  which,  'twas  said,  had  crept  a  flaw 

That  render'd  it  not  worth  a  straw, 

And  spent  some  thousand  dollars ; 
A  just  decision  to  produce — 
Whether  a  gander  be  a  goose, 
Consistent  with  the  rules  in  use 

'Mong  scientific  scholars. 

(36) 


1820-30.]  THOMAS    PEIRCE. 


To  you  our  thanks  no  less  we  owe, 

For  having  spent  a  week  or  so 

In  learn'd  harangues,  to  sink  below 

Their  present  state,  your  wages : 
Declared  such  act  was  naught  but  fair  ; 
But  on  the  final  vote  took  care 
They  should  continue  as  they  were, 

Oh,  wise,  consistent  sages. 

In  August,  1821,  the  proprietors  of  the  Cincinnati  Theater  offered  "a  silver  ticket 
for  one  year's  freedom  of  the  Theater,"  for  the  best  poetical  address,  to  be  spoken  as 
a  prologue  at  the  opening  of  the  Theater,  which  was  expected  to  take  place  in  Octo 
ber,  but  did  not  occur  till  November  nineteenth.  "  Horace  in  Cincinnati "  was  the  success 
ful  author.  The  following  are  the  closing  lines  of  his  address.  We  doubt  whether 
their  spirit  has  since  been  always  observed  : 

Friends  of  our  infant  stage  !  who  here  resort, 
To  whom  our  Drama  looks  for  its  support, 
Whose  lib'ral  aid  this  classic  dome  has  reared, 
Whose  constant  zeal  our  every  hope  has  cheered, 
On  whose  superior  judgment  and  applause 
Depends  the  final  triumph  of  our  cause  ; 
If  e'er  some  foolish  fashion  of  the  day 
From  nature's  path  should  lead  our  steps  astray  ; 
If  honor's  voice  we  ever  strive  to  hush, 
Or  o'er  the  maiden's  cheek  diffuse  a  blush  ; 
If  ever  poor  neglected  worth  we  scorn, 
Or  crouch  to  those  with  empty  honors  born  ; — 
Oh,  give  us  not  your  sanction  !  but  dismiss 
The  play  and  players  with  th'  indignant  hiss. 
— Thus  may  the  Stage  present  to  public  view 
A  school  for  morals,  and  for  letters  too  ; 
Where  native  genius  may  expand  its  powers, 
And  strew  your  paths  with  intellectual  flowers. 

Mr.  Peirce  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  metrical  composition  for  occasions  like  that 
just  referred  to.  He  wrote  an  "Ode  on  Science  "  for  an  "  extra  night"  at  the  Western 
Museum  in  Cincinnati ;  and  when,  in  1822,  the  proprietors  of  the  ''New  Theater"  in 
Philadelphia  offered  a  silver  cup  for  the  best  poem,  to  be  delivered  at  the  opening  of 
their  "  dramatic  temple,"  he  was  a  competitor.  The  prize  was  awarded  to  Charles 
Sprague,  but  Mr.  Peirce's  ode  was  adjudged  "  second  best."  It  was  published  in  the 
Cincinnati  National  Republican,  April  eighteenth,  1823.  The  lines  on  "The  Drama," 
hereafter  quoted,  are  from  it. 

In  1824  and  1825,  Mr.  Peirce  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Literary  Gazette, 
published  and  edited  by  John  P.  Foote.  Besides  original  poems,  he  prepared  for  the 
Gazette  several  successful  translations  from  the  French  of  Boileau,  and  from  the  Span 
ish  of  Vasquez.  In  1825  he  wrote  a  second  series  of  satirical  poems,  which  he  pub 
lished  in  the  National  Republican.  They  were  entitled  "  Billy  Moody,"  and  professed 
to  recount  the  education  and  varied  experience  of  a  Yankee,  who  taught  school  in  the 
East,  and  then  wandered  to  the  West  as  a  peddler  and  an  office-seeker.  These  poems 
were  also  published  in  a  volume,  but  are  not  of  sufficient  general  interest  to  be  quoted 


THOMAS   PEIRCE. 


[1820-30. 


from  now.  Between  1825  and  1835  Mr.  Peirce  but  seldom  wrote.  His  last  published 
poem,  u  Knowledge  is  Power,"  was  contributed  to  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle  in  1827. 
Benjamin  Drake,  then  the  editor,  spoke  of  it  as  a  poem  of  much  spirit,  and  hoped  that 
"  one  who  wielded  his  pen  with  such  fluency,  would  oftener  contribute  to  the  gratifica 
tion  of  the  lovers  of  poetry."  Mr.  Peirce  was  not  only  disinclined  to  gratify  this 
hope,  but  in  his  later  life  was  unwilling  to  be  reminded  that  he  had  ever  courted  the 
muses.  The  specimens  of  his  unacknowledged  newspaper  contributions  which  are 
subjoined,  together  with  the  extracts  from  "  The  Muse  of  Hesperia,"  given  on  previ 
ous  pages,  fairly  represent  Mr.  Peirce's  poetic  abilities — unacknowledged  we  say,  be 
cause  he  did  not  sign  his  name  to  any  of  his  poems,  and  never  so  far  acknowledged 
"The  Muse  of  Hesperia"  as  to  give  the  Philomathic  Society  an  opportunity  to  pre 
sent  him  the  "fifty  dollar  gold  medal"  which  it  had  won. 


THE  DANDY.* 

BEHOLD  a  pale,  thin-visaged  wight, 
Some  five  feet,  more  or  less,  in  height ; 

Which,  as  it  frisks  and  dances, 
Presents  a  body  that,  at  most, 
Is  less  substantial  than  a  ghost, 

As  pictured  in  romances ! 

A  head  of  hair,  as  wild  and  big 
As  any  reverend  bishop's  wig ; 

And  on  the  top  inserted 
(Or  front,  or  side — as  runs  the  whim) 
A  something  with  an  inch  of  brim, 

And  crown  like  cone  inverted. 

Around  its  neck  a  stiff  cravat ; 
Another  tightly  drawn  o'er  that, 

And  over  these,  a  dozen 
Enormous  ruffles  on  his  breast; 
And  close  below  a  tiny  vest, 

For  gaudy  colors  chosen. 

And  over  all,  a  trim  surtout 
Scanty  in  length,  and  tight  to  boot. 
And  (what  is  now  no  wonder) 


*  ' '  Horace  in  Cincinnati. "    Ode  VII. 
ever  posterity  see  verse  of  mine. 


To  Posterity— if 


Rigg'd  out  with  capes  full  half  a  score ; 
And  five  small  buttons  down  before, 
Just  half  an  inch  asunder. 

With  trowsers  welted  down  each  side, 
And  spreading  out  almost  as  wide 

As  petticoats  at  bottom; 
A  small  dumb  watch  some  cent'ries  old, 
With  twenty  keys  and  seals  of  gold — 

No  matter  how  he  got  'em. 

To  dangle  at  a  lady's  side, 
Whene'er  she  takes  a  walk  or  ride, 

A  thing  extremely  handy: — 
These  constitute — as  fashions  run 
In  eighteen  hundred  twenty-one — 

A  Cincinnati  Dandy. 


TO  A  LADY.* 

IF  virgin  purity  of  mind, 

With  native  loveliness  combined, 

In  life's  unclouded  morning; 
If  in  her  fair  and  comely  face 
Shine  true  politeness,  ease  and  grace, 

Her  character  adorning ; 


*From  «  Horace  in  Cincinnati.'1    Ode  XIX. 


1820-30.] 


THOMAS    P  El  ROE, 


39 


If  bless'd  with  kind  parental  care, 
To  guard  her  steps  from  vice's  snare ; 

And  if  religion  summon 
To  taste  her  joys  a  maid  like  this  ; — 
You  must,  dear  friend,  possess  of  bliss 

A  portion  more  than  common. 

For  she  who  thus  aspires  to  feel, 
And  cultivate  with  ardent  zeal, 

Those  virtuous  dispositions 
By  which  alone  the  fair  can  rise, 
Of  human  bliss  will  realize 

The  most  romantic  visions. 

Proceed,  dear  girl,  in  learning's  way ; 
Whatever  coxcomb  fools  may  say, 

'Tis  knowledge  that  ennobles  ; 
Still  laugh  at  beauty's  outward  show, 
Still  shun  the  proud  unletter'd  beau, 

And  scorn  pedantic  foibles. 

Unskilled  in  coquetry's  vain  wiles, 
Devoid  of  art,  and  siren  smiles, 

And  free  from  envy's  leaven, 
Still  with  untiring  ardor  run 
The  virtuous  course  you  have  begun 

Beneath  the  smiles  of  heaven. 

Beauty,  at  best,  is  but  a  gleam 
Of  mem'ry,  from  a  frenzied  dream 

Or  legendary  story ; 
'Tis  but  the  rainbow  in  the  skies, 
Which  steals  away  before  our  eyes, 

In  evanescent  glory. 

'Tis  but  a  new-blown  fragile  flower, 
Blushing  beside  a  roseate  bower :  — 

If  with  rude  hand  you  sever 
Its  beauties  from  its  native  stem — 
Though  fair  and  brilliant  as  a  gem, 

It  fades  away  forever. 

And  if  (as  may  occur  ere  long) 
Around  you  num'rous  suitors  throng, 
Led  on  by  ardent  passion, 


With  complaisance  the  wise  regard, 
But  from  your  company  discard 
The  silly  fools  of  fashion. 

And  should  you  find  a  modest  youth, 
The  friend  of  piety  and  truth, 

In  precept  and  example, 
Proceed  by  mutual  vows  to  prove 
The  consummation  of  your  love 

At  Hymen's  sacred  temple. 

For  she  who  heeds  but  folly's  voice, 
And  makes  her  matrimonial  choice 

From  outward  show  and  glitter, 
May  find,  with  sorrow  in  the  end, 
Her  late  warm,  kind,  connubial  friend, 

Will  all  life's  sweets  embitter. 

But  she  who,  scorning  wealth  and  birth, 
Aims  in  her  choice  alone  at  worth, 

From  mental  coffers  flowing, 
Illumed  will  pass  life's  somber  way, 
Fair  as  the  dawn  to  perfect  day, 

Still  bright  and  brighter  glowing. 


THE  DRAMA. 

IN  "olden  time,"  when  arts  and  taste  re 
fined 

Lit  with  bright  beams  the  midnight  of  the 
mind, 

And  martial  Greece  subdued  her  num'rous 
foes, 

The  Drama's  sun  o'er  classic  Athens  rose. 

By  clouds  obscured,  at  first  it  scarcely 
spread 

Its  pale  cold  beams  o'er  each  high  moun 
tain's  head, 

Till  gaining  step  by  step  its  noonday  height, 

It  clothed  the  boundless  scene  with  brill 
iant  light, 


THOMAS    PEIRCE. 


[1820-30. 


Then  learned  Eschylus,  warm  with  patriot 
fire, 

Touched  with  bold  hand  the  Drama's  slum 
bering  lyre, 

Avenged  inveterate  faults  with  satire's  dart, 

Or  laughed  a  thousand  foibles  from  the 
heart. 

Then  soft  Euripides,  skilled  to  control 

The  kindest,  gentlest  feelings  of  the  soul, 

O'er  his  bright  pages  deep  enchantment 
threw, 

And  floods  of  tears  from  pity's  fountain 

drew. 
When  all  her  glory  gone,  in  evil  hour 

Greece    bowed    submissive     to     superior 
power ; 

Tin-  wandering  Drama  found  a  friend  and 
home 

In  bounteous  Caesar  and  triumphant  Rome 

As  moved  by  love  or  pity,  scorn  or  rage, 

Guilt,  pride  or  folly,  Roscius  trod  the  stage  ; 

His  mimic  power  surrounding  thousands 
praised, 

And  e'en  great  Tully  lauded  as  he  gazed. 
When  the  long  reign  of  Gothic  midnight 
pass'd, 

Wit,  taste  and  science  blessed  the  world  at 
last; 

To  Albion's  shores  the  scenic  Muses  flew, 

And  o'er  her  youthful  bards  their  mantles 
threw. 

Then  Shakspeare  rose,  in  truth  and  vir 
tue's  cause, 

Revived    the    Drama,  and   reformed    its 
laws, 

Portrayed  the  airy  forms  of  fancy's  dreams, 

And  spread  o'er  life's  rude  scenes  her  bright 
est  beams. 

Then   Garrick  moved,  the  Roscius  of  the 
age, 

And  learning  quit  the  forum  for  the  stage. 

Then  Siddons  bade  the  tears  of  pity  start, 

And  Kemble    thrilled  each  fiber   of  the 

In -art. 

When  on  the  rights  of  man  curs'd  ty 
rants  trod, 


And  stepp'd  between  his  conscience  and  his 
God; 

Fettered  with  rules  of  faith  the  free-born 
soul, 

And  bade  the  million  bow  to  their  control ; 

Or,  flushed  with  savage  pride,  beheld  ex 
pire 

A  host  of  martyrs  on  the  funeral  pyre ; 

The  exiled  drama  quits  the  scene  of  blood, 

And,  following  Freedom  o'er  the  Atlantic 
flood, 

Reared  with  a  skill  and  taste  unknown  be 
fore, 

Her  fanes  and  altars  on  Columbia's  shore. 


KNOWLEDGE  IS  POWER. 

KNOWLEDGE  is  power. — In  days  of  old 
Archimedes,  the  learned  and  bold, 
Who  rude  barbaric  nations  taught 
The  lore  with  which  his  mind  was  fraught, 
Threw  to  one  point  the  rays  of  light 
Reflected  by  his  mirrors  bright. 
Rome's  mighty  fleet  in  flames  arose, 
Fired  by  the  science  of  her  foes : 
A  crazy  vessel  scarcely  bore 
Marcellus  from  the  hostile  shore  ; 
While  smiling  peace  resumed  again 
O'er  Syracuse  her  wonted  reign. 

Knowledge  is  power. — From  age  to  age 
The  bolts  of  heaven,  with  deadly  rage, 
Marked  their  red  paths  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
Alarmed  the  skies  with  thunders  loud, 
O'er    earth's   vast    surface   winged    their 

course, 

And  mortals  trembled  at  their  force  ; 
Towns,  temples,  navies,  catch  the  fire, 
And  in  the  quenchless  flames  expire. 
Franklin — whose  penetrating  eye 
Could  Nature's  darkest  secrets  spy ; 
Whose  mind  could  compass  all  her  laws, 
And  from  the  effect  deduce  the  cause — 


1820-30.] 


THOMAS   PEIRCE. 


41 


O'er  ships  and  castles  leads  the  wires, 
And  shoots  on  high  the  forked  spires. 
The  thunder's  loud,  tremendous  crash, 
The  lightning's  vivid,  fatal  flash, 
Now  pass  unfeared,  innoxious  found, 
And  spend  their  rage  beneath  the  ground. 

Knowledge  is  power. — Now  calmly  sleep 
The  billows  of  the  "vasty  deep;" 
O'er  the  still  fleets  no  friendly  gales 
Pass  lightly  by  to  swell  the  sails ; 
Fixed  to  one  spot,  they  silent  ride 
In  useless  splendor  on  the  tide ; 
While  many  a  schooner,  keel,  and  barge, 
Designed  to  trace  our  rivers  large, 
Can  scarcely  stem  the  rapid  course, 
With  all  their  sails  and  oars  in  force. 
From  dumb  oblivion's  dreary  night 
Great  Fulton  rushes  forth  to  light, 
Conducted  by  a  numerous  throng 
Of  arts  and  sciences  along ; 
And  prays  the  mighty  power  of  Steam 
To  bless  his  new  adventurous  scheme. 
Lo,  as  he  lifts  his  wand  on  high, 
O'er  the  calm  seas  the  vessels  fly 
With  force,  rapidity  and  ease, 
Unaided  by  the  gentlest  breeze  ! 
Or  up  impetuous  rivers  glide 
In  spite  of  currents,  wind  and  tide !  — 
Whole  nations  bless  the  sage  sublime, 
Who  triumphs  over  space  and  time. 

Knowledge  is  power. — Since  time  began 
The  unrelenting  foe  of  man, 
The  monster,  Pest'lence,  stalked  abroad, 
By  all  the  powers  of  health  unawed. 
O'er  the  broad  plains  and  hills  sublime 
Of  Europe's  rich  and  varied  clime ; 
O'er  Asia's  wide-extended  land  ; 
O'er  Afric's  desert  realms  of  sand ; 
O'er  the  vast  mountains,  vales  and  plains 
Where  nature  in  her  splendor  reigns, 
E'er  since  Columbus  great  unfurled 
The  glories  of  the  Western  world  ; 
Through  every  clime  and  every  zone 
By  man  inhabited  or  known, 


Far  as  the  boundless  ocean  rolls, 
Or  land  wide-stretches  to  the  poles  ; — 
He  marched  abroad  with  giant  stride, 
And  death  and  ruin  at  his  side : 
Whole  nations  fell  beneath  his  hand, 
And  desolation  ruled  the  land. 
Great  Jenner,  cool  and  undismayed, 
With  only  Science  for  his  aid, 
Grapples  the  fiend  in  deadly  fight, 
And  hurls  him  to  eternal  night : 
While  all  mankind,  with  loud  acclaim, 
Resound  their  benefactor's  name. 

Knowledge  is  power. — By  chemic  art, 
Behold  the  sage  Montgolfier  part 
From  water's  clear,  compounded  mass 
Pure  hydrogen's  etherial  gas ; 
Urged  by  whose  light,  elastic  spring 
The  huge  balloon,  on  buoyant  wing, 
Amid  the  thousands  gazing  round, 
Receives  the  sage,  and  leaves  the  ground. 
Observe  the  bold  Montgolfier  rise, 
League  above  league,  through  purer  skies  : 
Now  a  thick  mist  the  globe  enshrouds, 
Now  see,  it  soars  above  the  clouds, 
Now,  faint  and  fainter,  from  afar 
[t  shines  a  small,  pale-glimmering  star ; 
And  now  it  vanishes  from  sight; 
While,  from  this  vast,  ethereal  height, 
The  dauntless  sage,  the  clouds  between, 
Looks  down  with  rapture  on  the  scene ; 
Where  wide  around  the  landscape  spreads, 
And  towns  and  cities  lift  their  heads ; 
Where  to  the  clouds  huge  mountains  throw 
Their  heads  gigantic — white  with  snow; 
Where  round  the  globe  deep  oceans  roll, 
And  land  extends  to  either  pole. 
Tired  of  these  wondrous  scenes — behold 
The  sage  his  parachute  unfold ; 
And,  loosing  quick  the  cords  that  bind, 
lis  airy  castle  cleaves  the  wind, — 
While  he,  with  safe-descending  speed, 
Sow  from  his  heavenward  journey  freed, 
The  boundless  power  of  knowledge  shows, 
And    gains    the    earth   from    whence    he 


rose ! 


THOMAS    P  E  I R  C  E  . 


[1820-30. 


Knowledge  is  power. — In  depths  pro 
found, 

Where  midnight  throws  her  gloom  around, 
With  thunder's  voice,  thro'  mines  and  caves, 
Tin1  demon  gas  resides  and  raves; 
And  as  the  workmen  crowd  below, 
Slaughters  his  thousands  at  a  blow  : 
And  gloats  with  fiend-like  joy  his  eyes, 
As  hills  of  dead  around  him  rise. 
Lo  !  Davy,  fearless  of  his  ire, 
Weaves  a  close  net  of  finest  wire, 
De-rends  the  monster's  dreary  den, 
And,  stumbling  o'er  the  bones  of  men, 
Beholds  him  sunk,  in  grim  repose, 
And  his  wire-mantle  o'er  him  throws. 
He  rouses, — feels  his  iron  robe, 
And  to  its  center  shakes  the  globe ; 
To  burst  his  magic  fetters  tries, 
And  in  the  desperate  effort  dies. 
Thus  fell  by  great  Alcides'  hand, 
The  hydra-monster  of  the  land. 

Knowledge   is   power. — When   private 

jars 

Were  changed  of  yore  to  public  wars, 
Till  millions,  prodigal  of  life, 
Rushed  to  the  field  and  joined  the  strife, 
Where  in  close  conflict,  hand  to  hand, 
With  javelin,  battle-ax,  and  brand, 
More  copious  streams  of  blood  were  shed, 
And  raised  were  larger  piles  of  dead, 
Immortal  Bacon  rose  to  view, 
And  nature's  thickest  vail  withdrew, 
And  as  her  light  illumed  his  mind, 
Three  magic  substances  combined. 
Touched  by  a  spark,  the  now  compound 
Exploded  with  tremendous  sound; 
And  myriads  heard  with  dread  surprise, 
Tin-  mimic  thunder  of  the  skies. 
******* 

Knowledge  is  power. — In  olden  time, 
When  superstition,  leagued  with  crime, 


Ruled  the  wide  world,  ere  classic  light 
Had  pierced  the  gloom  of  Gothic  night; 
While  tedious  years  of  toil  and  care 
Were  spent  one  transcript  to  prepare, 
Which  chance  might  to  oblivion  doom, 
A  drop  deface,  a  spark  consume ; — 
Laurentius  like  an  angel  moves 
From  Haerlem's  academic  groves, 
And  with  his  wooden  types  combined, 
Gives  a  new  wonder  to  mankind. 
Hence  knowledge  flew  at  his  command 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  land  to  land, 
And  science  his  broad  flag  unfurled, 
To  wave  it  o'er  a  brighter  world ; 
Hence  unimpaired  to  us  have  come 
The  classic  works  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
And  we  their  wit  and  learning  know, 
Though  penned  three  thousand  years  ago; 
And  hence  these  lamps  a  path  will  light 
To  erudition's  mountain  height ; 
And  thence,  as  step  by  step  we  rise, 
To  perfect  knowledge  in  the  skies. 


YOUTH  AND  OLD  AGE. 

YOUTH  is  the  time  when  man, 

With  industry  and  care, 
The  store-house  of  his  mind  should  scan, 

And  lay  up  treasures  there 
Of  virtuous  thoughts  and  useful  lore, 
Ere  life's  unclouded  morn  is  o'er. 

Old  age  is  that  bright  hour 
To  erring  mortals  given, 
To  drop  earth's  riches,  joys  and  power, 

And  lay  up  wealth  in  heaven, 
For  their  support,  when  time  shall  be 
Merged  in  a  bless'd  eternity. 


JULIA  L.  DUMONT. 


JULIA  L.  DUMONT,  the  earliest  female  writer  in  the  West  whose  poems,  tales  and 
sketches  have  been  preserved,  was  the  daughter  of  Ebenezer  and  Martha  D.  Corey. 
Her  parents  emigrated  from  Rhode  Island  to  Marietta,  Ohio,  with  the  "'Ohio  Com 
pany,"  which  settled  at  that  place.  She  was  born  at  Waterford,  Washington  county, 
Ohio,  on  the  Muskingum  River,  in  October,  1794.  Her  parents  returned  to  Rhode 
Island  during  her  infancy,  and  while  she  was  yet  a  mere  babe,  her  father  died.  Her 
mother  removed  to  Greenfield,  Saratoga  county,  New  York,  and  married  the  second  time. 
They  then  had  their  residence  on  the  Kayaderosseras  Mountain,  in  Greenfield.  With 
her  mother,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  an  acquaintance  during  the  closing  years  of  her  life. 
From  her,  doubtless,  Mrs.  Dumont  inherited  her  delicate  organism  and  strong  emo 
tional  nature,  her  large-heartedness,  united  with  shrinking  sensibility.  And  in  that 
mountain  home  her  soul  learned  communion  with  nature  in  its  noble  forms — learned 
to  love  the  mountain,  with  its  beetling  brow,  and  the  gentle  hyacinth,  which  blos 
somed  at  its  base. 

She  spent  some  time  in  the  Milton  Academy,  in  Saratoga  county,  where  she  gave 
unmistakable  evidence  of  superior  mental  powers.  In  1811  she  taught  a  school  in 
Greenfield,  and  in  1812  in  Cambridge,  Washington  county,  New  York.  In  August 
of  the  last  named  year,  she  was  married  to  John  Dumont,  and  the  following  October 
they  removed  to  Ohio. 

The  village  of  Vevay,  Indiana,  is  on  a  beautiful  site.  The  river  has  a  majestic 
curve,  and  the  level  plateau  on  the  shore  corresponds  to  its  semicircular  sweep,  while 
around  its  periphery  stands,  like  guardian  sentinels,  a  range  of  noble  hills.  There 
settled  a  colony  of  Swiss,  designing  to  engage  in  the  culture  of  the  grape.  To  this 
locality  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dumont  went  in  1814,  in  the  gloomy  month  of  March,  and 
there  was  her  home  till  death.  There  were  the  struggles  incident  to  a  new  country. 
Her  husband  being  a  lawyer,  was,  according  to  the  custom  of  those  times,  much  from 
home,  attending  the  courts  of  other  counties.  The  care  of  the  family  was  upon  her, 
and  she  met  it  nobly.  Schools  were  scarce  and  poor.  Her  own  children  were  to  be 
instructed,  and  she  determined  to  do  the  work  herself.  She  opened  a  school,  and 
thenceforward  much  of  her  life  was  spent  in  the  school-room.  For  this  she  was 
peculiarly  fitted  by  her  sympathy  and  keen  intuition.  Indeed,  we  may  claim  for  her 
a  high  position  among  western  pioneer  teachers.  She  had  a  lofty  idea  of  the  mission 
of  the  instructor,  and  if  she  did  not  attain  it,  'twas  because  she  placed  it  above  what  a 
mind  of  far  more  than  ordinary  abilities,  tireless  effort,  and  a  loving  heart  could 
reach.  She  was  successful  in  imparting  what  she  knew.  A  dear  friend  of  hers,  who 
often  saw  her  in  the  school-room,  said,  "How  faithfully  did  she  obey  the  command, 
'Say  to  them  that  are  of  fearful  heart,  be  strong!'  How  zealously  did  she  labor  to 
confirm  the  feeble !  Was  there  one  in  her  school  particularly  unfortunate,  that  one 

(  43) 


JULIA    L.   DUMONT.  [1820-30. 


was  immediately  taken  especially  under  her  maternal  care.  She  had  in  her  school 
several  cripple  boys,  some  of  whom  were  poor  and  friendless,  and  it  seemed  to  me  no 
mother  could  have  surpassed  her  endeavor  to  fit  them  for  usefulness."  We  claim  special 
honor  for  her  early  and  successful  devotion  to  education  in  the  West. 

Her  nature  was  so  finely  strung  that  few  were  capable  of  sympathizing  with  her, 
either  in  her  sorrows  or  her  rejoicings.  She  dwelt  in  some  sense  alone,  and  yet  her 
heart  was  full  of  sympathy.  When  a  great  grief  was  pressing  upon  her  soul,  she 
was  surrounded  by  a  promiscuous  circle,  capable  of  interesting  and  rendering  happy 
those  with  whom  she  mingled.  Very  bitter  were  some  of  the  trials  through  which 
she  passed,  and  very  severe  the  discipline  of  suffering  which  was  her  lot.  She 
saw  three  sons  wither,  one  by  one,  away  to  the  cold  grave.  Soon  a  daughter  followed 
them.  There  was  a  beautiful  boy  whom  she  called  Edgar,  and  whom  she  loved 
intensely.  One  summer  morning  he  left  her  side  full  of  glee  ;  in  half  an  hour  he  was 
drowned ;  she  bore  him  to  her  house  in  her  arms.  The  blow  was  terrible.  Her 
soul  had  a  long-continued  struggle.  His  name  she  never  mentioned ;  yet  he  was 
ever  in  her  heart.  I  said  she  did  not  call  his  name,  but  a  letter  from  her  daughter 
says :  "Among  all  her  papers  was  never  found  any  allusion  to  his  name,  nor  to  this 
bereavement ;  but  in  a  private  drawer  of  hers  are  to  be  found  several  small  packages 
marked  thus,  'Seed  of  the  flowers  he  planted/  'The  shoes  he  wore,'  'His  little  fish 
hooks.'" 

There  is  scarcely  to  be  found  a  more  touching  fact.  It  tells  the  deep,  sad  grief  which 
preyed  upon  her  soul.  During  all  this  struggle  she  did  not  "  charge  God  foolishly." 
She  strove  to  feel  what  she  believed  to  be  true — that  God  was  very  pitiful  and  of  ten 
der  mercy. 

There  were  other  trials.  She  had  another  son,  who  had  grown  to  man's  estate — 
had  married — was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  had  high  hopes  of  eminence  in  his  pro 
fession.  He  was  sprightly  and  full  of  force.  Well  did  I  know  him — often  I  spoke 
with  him — united  him  to  his  bride  in  marriage,  and  stood  by  his  bedside  as  he  was 
passing  down  into  the  swellings  of  Jordan.  In  the  pride  of  his  manhood  he  was 
smitten,  and  wasted  to  the  tomb.  Another  shrine  was  broken ! 

Mrs.  Dumont's  health  gave  way — her  constitution,  though  elastic,  was  delicate,  and 
she  bowed  at  length.  She  went  South — among  the  orange  groves  and  palmettos  she 
sought  to  regain  her  former  strength  and  activity.  It  was  not  to  be  so.  She  was 
marked  for  death.  A  year,  or  nearly  so,  was  spent  South,  and  then  she  returned  home, 
for  Vevay  was  still  the  home  of  the  living  and  the  resting-place  of  the  dead. 

Amid  the  greetings,  the  experiences,  the  questions  asked  and  answered,  her  children 
discovered  that  she  had  come  back  to  them  with  a  distressing  cough.  It  never  left 
her,  but  was  developed  into  consumption !  It  only  needs  the  old  history  to  tell  what 
ivmains,  so  far  as  the  disease  was  concerned — the  mocking  promise  of  restored  health — 
then  the  change.  With  the  indomitable  industry  which  had  ever  marked  her,  she 
would  not  cease  work,  but,  in  addition  to  preparing  a  volume  of  sketches  for  the 
press,  also,  after  her  return,  superintended  her  school  through  several  terms.  "She 
trusted  and  was  not  afraid."  Trust  ripened  into  joy,  and  she  whose  whole  life  had 


1820-30.]  JULIA    L.    DUMO  NT.  45 

been  one  weary  battle-field,  at  last  triumphed  !     I  cannot  forbear  transcribing  one  other 
passage  from  her  daughter's  letter  to  me,  though  it  was  not  written  for  publication  : 

"For  many  years  she  suffered  with  a  nervous  restlessness,  which  prevented  her 
sleeping;  but  the  blessed  promise,  'He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,'  seemed  graven  on 
her  heart.  Again  and  again  have  I  found  her  with  her  eyes  closed,  hands  clasped, 
and  voice  uttering,  as  in  thanksgiving  prayer,  '  So  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.' " 

Early  in  life  Mrs.  Duinont's  mental  powers  attracted  attention,  and  led  many 
to  presage  for  her  a  high  literary  position.  But  the  cares  of  her  household,  her 
feeble  health,  and  a  distrust  of  her  own  abilities,  prevented  her  from  attempting  more 
than  fragmentary  essays,  tales,  sketches,  and  poems.  While  her  productions  were 
sought  after  with  avidity  by  publishers  able  to  pay  for  them,  she  felt  so  much  desire 
to  build  up  and  sustain  the  local  press  and  home  literature,  that  she  more  usually 
would  send  her  best  songs  to  some  new  village  paper,  struggling  for  an  existence,  and 
with  the  communication,  some  words  of  cheer  to  the  editor,  to  give  him  heart  and 
hope.  She  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Literary  Gazette,  published  at  Cincin 
nati.  Several  of  the  best  poems  she  wrote  were  first  printed  in  the  Gazette,  among 
*  which  are  "Poverty,"  "The  Pauper  to  the  Rich  Man,"  and  "The  Orphan  Emi 
grant."  In  the  years  1834,  '35  and  '36,  she  wrote  frequently  for  the  Cincinnati 
Mirror,  but  chiefly  in  prose.  She  was  awarded  two  prizes  by  the  publishers  of  the 
Mirror  for  stories  on  Western  themes.  One  of  those  stories,  "Ashtori  Grey,"  with 
others,  contributed  to  the  Western  Literary  Journal,  and  the  Ladies'  Repository,  are 
collected  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Life  Sketches."  * 

While  examining  the  characteristics  of  Mrs.  Dumont's  style,  we  are  impressed  with 
its  purity.  She  never  wrote  a  line  calculated  to  lure  one  from  virtue,  to  gild  vice,  or 
bedeck  with  flowers  the  road  to  death.  There  is  virtue  in  all  that  lives  from  her  pen — 
virtue  the  child  of  heaven — the  true  guide  to  success  in  life,  and  true  title  to  fra 
grant  memory.  Her  teachings  addressed  to  the  young — for  to  them  and  for  them  she 
mainly  wrote — inspire  heroic  virtue,  a  working  faith,  and  conquering  zeal.  She  had 
ever  a  word  of  hopefulness  for  the  desponding,  of  encouragement  for  the  toiling. 

Mrs.  Dumont  died  on  the  second  day  of  January,  1857 — mourned  not  only  by  a 
bereaved  family  and  immediate  neighbors,  but  by  many  far  distant,  to  whom  kind 
instructions  had  closely  endeared  her.  It  was  understood,  in  1835,  that  Mrs.  Dumont 
had  collected  materials  for  a  Life  of  Tecumseh.  Whether  the  purpose  of  such  a 
work  was  executed  we  are  not  advised.  We  are  informed,  however,  that  her  friends 
contemplate  the  publication  of  her  poems  in  a  volume. 

Mr.  Dumont  is  yet  a  resident  of  Vevay — the  center  of  a  family  of  wide  influence 
in  Indiana.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Legislature  in  1822-'23,  and  was 
afterward  a  candidate  for  the  office  of  Governor,  against  David  Wallace.  Mr. 
Dumont  has  a  worthy  reputation  in  Indiana  as  a  lawyer.  His  son,  Ebenezer  Dumont, 
who  distinguished  himself  as  a  Colonel  in  the  Mexican  war,  is  now  a  citizen  of  Indi 
anapolis. 

*  Life  Sketches,  from  Common  Paths.    Appletons,  New  York,  1856.    12mo.    pp.  286. 


.)  T  L  [A    L.    DTM  ONT. 


[1820-30. 


POVERTY. 

I  PARDON  the  lover,  that  raves  of  the  maid, 
AVI  lose  graces,  tho'  few,  have  his  bosom 

betray'd, 
But  the  poet,  who  sings  of  dame  poverty's 

charms, 
Deserves  to  be  chained  in  her  merciless 

arms. 

Behold  her  stern  features,  how  livid  and 
pale ; 

Her  breath  is  the  Upas,  that  withers  the 
vale ; 

Her  garments  hang  loose  round  her  skele 
ton  form, 

And  she  frowns  like  the  demon  that  rides 
on  the  storm. 

If  dropp'd  thro'  a  cloud  from  the  realms  of 

the  blest, 

A  gem  of  benevolence  glows  in  the  breast ; 
Let  poverty  breathe  on  this  gem  of  the 

heart, 
Alas !  it  no  longer  its  light  can  impart. 

When   touch'd  by  the  tale  of  unvarnish'd 

distress, 

A  hand  is  extended  the  sufferer  to  bless 
AVith  cold,  empty  fingers  that  purpose  to 

blight, 
Lo!    poverty  comes,  like  the  mildews  of 

night. 

If  science  her  treasure  attempts  to  display, 
Where  poverty  holds  her  tyrannical  sway, 
Her  subjects  are  torn  from  the  rapt'rous 

repast, 
To  labor  condemned,  while  the  mind  is  to 

feat 

Tho'  Genius  goes  forth  on  the  pinions  of 

light, 

With  Imlos  encircled,  and  brilliants  bedight, 
If  poverty's  vapors  around  him  are  cast, 
The  vale  of  obscurity  hides  him  at  last. 


A  vaunt,  then,  thou  goblin  :  away  from  my 

path ! 

I'm  weary  of  drinking  thy  vials  of  wrath ; 
Thy  mists  have  extinguisL'd  the  lights  of 

my  soul, 
And  my  spirit  revolts  from  thy   further 

control. 


THE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DYING  INFANT. 

CHILD  of  my  bosom,  how  deep  thy  decay ! 
Life  !  thy  last  tint  is  now  fading  away ; 
Death  his  pale  seal  on  thy  cheek  has  im- 

press'd, — 
Babe  of  my  love  !  thou  art  hast'ning  to  rest. . 

Pain !  thou  shalt  riot  no  more  on  his  form, 
Grave !  thy  cold  pillow  is  rock'd  with  no 

storm ; 
Slumbers  of  death,  ye  are  tranquil   and 

deep, 
Sweetly  and  long  shall  the  suffering  sleep. 

Bud  of  affection,  pale,  canker'd  and  low, 
Blossom  of  hope,  shall  I  weep  for  the  blow ! 
Life !  thy  dark  billow  is  turbid  and  wild, 
Mercy  !  thy  cherubims  wait  for  my  child. 

Go  then,  my  babe,  the  deep  conflict  is  past, 
Calm  and  resign'd,  I  will  yield  to  the  blast ; 
Go  where  the  spoiler  shall  scatter  no  blight, 
Angels  shall  hymn  thee  to  regions  of  light. 

Ah !  thy  deep  meanings  still  break  on  my 

ear, 

Still  thy  pure  spirit  is  lingering  here ; 
Grief!  thy  dark  surges  yet  proudly  shall 

roll, 
Visions  of  bliss  !  ye  have  fled  from  my  soul. 

Look  at  that  face !  'tis  distorted  and  wild, 
See  those  wan  features  where  innocence 
smiled ; 


1820-80.] 


JULIA    L.    DUMONT. 


17 


Where  are  their  light  and  their  loveliness 

now  ? 
Heavy  and  cold  are  the  dews  on  his  brow. 

Hark !  how  convulsive  and  deep  is  his 
breath, 

See  those  clench'd  hands,  they  are  strug 
gling  with  death ; 

When,  oh  my  God  !  shall  the  agony  cease? 

When  shall  the  sufferer  slumber  in  peace  ? 

Say,  shall  I  weep  when  in  sleep  he  is  laid  ? 
No !  the  deep  waves  of  despair  shall  be 

stayed, 

Calmly  I'll  gaze  on  the  still  settled  face, 
Calmly  impress  the  last  icy  embrace. 

Loveless  and   cold  when  my  pathway  is 

left, 

Hope  of  its  blossoms  eternally  reft, 
Summon'd  to  bliss,  my  last  cherub  shall 

rise, 
Pure  and  immortal,  a  child  of  the  skies. 


THE  PAUPER  TO  THE  RICH  MAN. 

'Tis  the  rich  man  rolling  past, 

The  man  of  lordly  sway, 
And  the  chilling  glance  on  the  pauper  cast, 

Would  rebuke  me  from  his  way. 

But  alas  !  my  brother,  spare 

That  look  of  cold  recoil, 
Nor  with  the  pride  of  thy  state,  compare 

The  garb  of  want  and  toil. 

And  stay  thine  alms,  for  I  seek 

These  meager  hands  to  fill, 
No  part  of  aught  thy  robes  bespeak ; 

Yet  are  we  brothers  still. 

Though  thy  scorn  our  path  divide, 

Though  thou  own'st  no  brother's  heart, 


Yet  shall  not  envy's  poisonous  tide 
Our  -souls  yet  farther  part. 

Hast  thou  not  suffered  ?     Years 

Have  o'er  thee  also  swept ; 
Thou  hast  journey'd  in  a  vale  of  tears, 

Hast  thou  not  also  wept? 

Thou  art  strong,  yet  hath  not  pain 
E'er  bowed  thy  mighty  head  ? 

And  the  robe  of  wealth  been  found  all  vain 
A  healing  balm  to  shed  ? 

And  thy  mind's  rich  gifts  been  lost, 
As  thou  slirunk'st  with  icy  chill, 

Or  in  wildering  dreams  of  frenzy  toss'd  ? 
Then  are  we  brothers  still. 

Hast  thou  still,  in  life's  fierce  race, 
Swept  on  with  strength  unworn, 

Nor  dim,  uncertain  aim  taken  place, 
Of  thy  strong  spirit's  scorn  ? 

Or  hath  strange  weariness, 

Mid  all  thy  proud  renown, 
Flung  on  thy  heart  with  palsying  press, 

Borne  its  high  pulses  down, 

Till  thou,  in  the  flush  of  life, 
Stood  faltering,  sick  and  chill, 

And  thy  soul  in  faintness  forgot  its  strife  ? 
Then  are  we  brothers  still. 

Hast  thou  not  on  human  worth 

Too  deep  a  venture  laid, 
And  found,  more  cold  than  the  icy  north, 

The  chill  of  trust  betrayed? 

And  felt  how  like  a  spell, 

Earth's  warm  light  faded  out, 
As  from  the  heart  thou  hadst  loved  too  well, 

Thou  turn'dst  all  hearts  to  doubt  ? 

Hast  thou  known  and  felt  all  this, 

With  many  a  nameless  ill, 
That  drugged  thy  every  drop  of  bliss? 

Then  are  we  brothers  still. 


JULIA   L.    DUMONT. 


[1820-30. 


And  death !  the  spoiler  death, 

Who  mocks  even  love's  strong  clasp, 

Hath  he  borne  naught  to  his  halls  beneath, 
"NVon  from  thy  soul's  fond  grasp  ? 

Or  hast  thou  bent  to  kiss 

The  lips  his  breath  had  chilled? 

And  called,  in   dreams   of    "  remembered 

bliss," 
On  tones  forever  stilled  ? 

And  stood,  with  bowed  face,  hid 
By  the  grave  thy  dead  must  fill, 

And  heard  the  clod  on  the  coinn-lid  ? 
Then  are  we  brothers  still. 

Is  not  deep  suffering 

Upon  thy  nature  sealed  ? 
And  shall  all  the  gifts  that  dust  may  bring, 

Thy  mortal  bosom  shield  ? 

And  hasten  we  not  down 

To  the  same  low,  narrow  bed, 

Where  the  mighty  doffs  his  victor-crown,, 
And  the  tired  slave  rests  his  head  ? 

Then  pass  on  in  thy  pride, 

Till  earth  shall  claim  her  part ; 

Yet  why  should  envy's  bitter  tide 
Flow  o'er  a  human  heart  ? 

Earth's  pomps  around  thee  fold 

Yet  closer,  if  thou  will ; 
Thro'  this  squalid  frame  the  winds  pierce 
cold, 

Yet  are  we  brothers  still. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

COLD  planet,  of  the  changeful  form ! 

Dark  shadows  round  thee  roll, 
YH  .-till  thy  beams  dispel  the  storm, 

That  rocks  the  madd'ning  soul. 


The  waves  of  passion,  strong  and  deep, 
Like  summer  seas  are  hush'd  to  sleep, 

Beneath  thy  calm  control: 
Like  sacred  balm  which  heaven  imparts, 
Thy  rays  descend  on  breaking  hearts. 

The  sea-boy  on  the  billowy  wraste 

Of  waters,  dark  and  wild, 
Far  from  the  home  which  love  embrac'd 

When  brighter  visions  smil'd — 
While  soft  thy  beam  on  ocean  sleeps, 
Far  o'er  the  wave  his  spirit  sweeps, 

By  magic  power  beguiled: 
And  forms  yet  lov'd,  a  spectral  band, 
Embrace  him  on  his  native  land. 

Ethereal  lamp !  whose  flame  is  fed 

From  an  eternal  source, 
Religion's  softest  dews  are  shed, 

While  thou  roll'st  on  thy  course ; 
The  vail  of  mental  darkness  rends, 
And  holy  light  from  heaven  descends, 

With  strong,  resistless  force : 
Faith  points  beyond  the  purple  skies, 
And,  thither,  hopes  unearthly  rise. 

Queen  of  the  hush'd,  mysterious  hour, 

When  fairies  hold  their  sway, 
Young  love,  exulting,  hails  thy  power, 

And  shuns  the  glare  of  day. 
Lured  by  thy  light,  from  scenes  of  mirth, 
The  festive  hall,  the  social  hearth, 

His  votaries  court  thy  ray : 
Pure  witness  of  the  vestal  sigh, 
When  youthful  hearts  throb  warm  and 
high. 

And  he  whose  hopes  and  joys  are  fled 

Beyond  this  vale  of  tears ; 
Who  strays  among  his  kindred  dead, 

The  wreck  of  former  years  ; 
Sooth'd  by  thy  soft  seraphic  light, 
His  spirit  wings  a  transient  flight 

To  everlasting  spheres : 
And  forms,  now  mouldering  at  his  feet, 
In  beauty  cloth'd,  his  vision  greet. 


1820-30.] 


JULIA    L.    DUMONT. 


49 


Pale  taper  of  the  glimmering  raj, 

Lamp  of  the  magic  spell, 
Soon  as  thou  climb'st  thy  azure  way, 

The  muses  leave  their  cell, 
And  bid  the  rushing  tide  of  song, 
In  varying  numbers,  roll  along, 

With  wild  tumultuous  swell : 
But  hush — their  band  may  now  retire, 
For  thou  hast  quench'd  thy  vestal  fire. 


THE  THUNDER-STORM. 

No  radiant  beam  has  cheer'd  the  joyles 

day, 

Nature  seems  robed  in  all  her  sad  attire 
Obscur'd  and  dim,  thro'  mists  of  thick'nin; 

gray, 
The  sun  appears  a  gloomy  ball  of  fire. 

But  lo !  he  sinks  fast  in  the  western  heaven 
Thro'  murky  shades  the  night  bird  slow 

ly  flies ; 
White-gathering  clouds  in  swift  confusion 

driven, 
Portend  a  tempest  low'ring  in  the  skies 

The  moon  in  darkness  vails  her  crescent 

form, 

Tlio'  late,  Ohio,  on  thy  breast  she  smiled 
Thy  turbid  wave  rolls  dark  beneath  the 

storm, 

And  round  thy  arks  the  rocking  winds 
roar  wild. 

The  shivering  oak  alarms  the  listening  ear, 
And  scattered  fragments  cross  the  hunt 
er's  path; 

The  vengeful  besom  sweeps  the  gay  par 
terre, 

And  ripening  fields  are  marked  with  fear 
ful  scath. 

Redoubling  horror  all  the  concave  shrouds, 
Re-echoing  thunders  startle  and  affright ; 


The    lightnings   dance   among   the    sable 

clouds, 

And  stream  athwart  the  stormy-bosom'd 
night. 

Dark  and  sublime,  amid  the  fitful  glare, 
Destruction    rides    triumphant   on    the 

storm, 
While    deep  and  fervent,  hark!  the  voice 

of  prayer 

Is  heard  from  lips,  that  never  learned  its 
form ! 

'Mid  scenes   like  this  the  spirit  seems  to 

pause ; 
In    wordless   dread,   on   nature's  awful 

verge, 

Jehovah  stands  reveal'd,  the  Eternal  Cause, 
That  wakes  the  storm  and   binds   the 
madd'ning  surge. 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE. 

YE  faded  threads  among  this  still  dark  hair, 
Noting  with  spectral  trace  time's  mock 
ing  speed ; 
low  deftly  weave  ye,  with  your  pale  hues 

there, 
A  writing  for  the  conscious  soul  to  read. 

And  let  me  read :  what   say   those   paly 

lines, 
Gleaming  through  locks  with  woman's 

pride  once  bound  ? 
'or  me  the  wreaths  life's  golden  summer 

twines, 

Brilliant  as  brief,  shall  never  more  be 
wound. 

he  rich  warm  prime,  when,  with  soft -col 
ored  hues, 

The  buds  of  hope,  not  here,  perhaps,  to 
bloom, 


50 


JULIA    L.    DUMONT. 


[1820-30. 


Yet,  even  through  tears,  like  violets  bathed 

in  dews, 
Still  yield  to  life  a  beauty  and  perfume. 

The  hours  when  still,  though  blent  with 

many  a  thorn, 
Beneath  the  feet  blossom  and  verdure 

spring, 

To  me  are  fled  ;  they  may  no  more  return, 
Nor  time  again  one  leaf  of  freshness 
bring. 

But  ever  shall  my  future  day  grow  wan, 
And  from  life's  shore  the  greenness  fade 

away, 
Till  the  dull  wave,  that  bears  me  darkling 

on, 
Reflect  no  image  but  of  pale  decay. 

Decay,  whose  gathering  mildews,  o'er  me 

spread, 
Shall  dim  each  sense  that  drinks   the 

summer  beams  ; 

The  glorious  odors  life's  full  censers  shed, 
The  music-tones  that  thrill  its  earlier 
dreams. 

Well,  let  me  meet  the  thought — it  hath  no 

power 

To  daunt  the  soul  that  knows  its  heaven 
ly  birth ; 
Pass,  pass  away !  brief  splendors  of  life's 

hour, 

The  sights,  the  sounds,  the  gorgeous  hues 
of  earth. 

All   sights,  all   sounds,  all   thoughts   and 

dreams  of  time, 
Of   a  pure  joy  that  wake  the  passing 

thrill, 

Are  yet  but  tokens  of  that  "better"  clime, 

Where  life  no  more  conflicts  with  change 

or  chill. 

The  flush,  the  odor  of  the  summer  rose, 
The  breath  of  spring,  the  morning's  robe 
of  light, 


The  whole  broad  beauty  o'er  the  earth  that 

glows, 

Are  of  the  land  that  knows  no  touch  of 
blight. 

The  melodies  that  fill  the  purple  skies, 
The  tones  of  love  that  thrill  life's  wide 

domain, 

Are  all  but  notes  of  the  deep  harmonies 
Poured  round  the  Eternal,  in  triumphant 
strain. 

And  I,  while  through  this  fading  form  of 

dust, 

There  burns   the    deathless  spark,   de 
rived  from  Him, 
May    look   on    change  with  calm,  though 

solemn  trust, 
Bearing  a  life  its  shadows  may  not  dim. 

Oh  bless'd  assurance  of  exulting  faith ! 

Humble,  and  yet  victorious  in  its  might, 
Through  the  dark  mysteries  of  decay  and 
death, 

Sustaining  on, — a  pillar  still  of  light. 

The  life  immortal!  of  a  peace  intense, 

Holy,  unchanging,  save  to  brighter  day, 
How  fails  the  mind  in  upward  flight  im 
mense, 

When,  to  conceive  it,  human  thoughts 
essay ! 

How  fade  the  glories  of  our  fairest  spheres, 
As  faith's  fixed  eye  pursues  that  heaven 
ward  flight ! 

The  hopes  and  joys,  the  pain,  the  passion 
ate  tears, 

How  shadowy  all — phantasmas  of  the 
night ! 

What  I  am  now,  and  what  I  once  have 

been, 

E'en  when  each  pulse  with  health's  full 
bound  was  rife, 


1820-30.] 


JULIA    L.   DUMONT. 


51 


Melt  as  a  dream — a  strange  and  struggling 

scene, 
A  dim  and  fitful  consciousness  of  life. 

Pass,  pass  away  !  things  of  a  fondness  vain 
Fade  on,  frail  vestments  meant  but  foi 

decay ; 

I  wait  the  robes  corruption  may  not  stain, 

The  bloom,  the  freshness  of  immortal 

day. 


THE  ORPHAN  EMIGRANT. 

LADY. 

WHITHER,  maiden,  art  thou  strolling, 

Heedless  of  the  evening  blast? 
List,  and  hear  the  thunders  rolling, 

Look !  the  storm  is  gathering  fast. 
With  no  guardian  friend  beside  thee, 

Whither,  whither  wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
Lest  some  evil  should  betide  thee, 

Haste,  oh !  maiden,  to  thy  home. 

MAIDEN. 

Ask  not,  lady,  where  I  wander, 

Ask  not  why  my  footsteps  roam ; 
Tho'  the  skies  are  rent  asunder, 

Lady,  still  I  have  no  home. 
Crossing  o'er  the  wide  Atlantic, 

Seeking  freedom's  blissful  shore, — 
Oh  !  reflection  makes  me  frantic — 

Lady,  I  can  tell  no  more. 

LADY. 

Oh,  be  calm,  poor  hapless  maiden, 
Let  me  hear  thy  artless  tale, 

Why  with  grief  so  heavy  laden  ? 
What  has  made  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 

MAIDEN. 

Freedom's  banner,  brightly  beaming, 
Lured  my  parents  o'er  the  wave, 

But  the  lights  of  death  were  gleaming, 
Even  then,  around  their  grave. 

After  braving  toils  and  dangers, 
Scorching  fevers  seized  their  brain ; 


Left  amid  a  land  of  strangers, 

Penury's  child,  I  weep  in  vain. 
Where  yon  willow  tree  is  bending, 

There  my  parents  mouldering  lie, 
Grief  their  Ellen's  heart  is  rending, 

Yet  they  answer  not  her  cry. 
Here  without  a  friend  to  cherish, 

Led  by  want's  cold  hand  I  roam — 
Rocked  on  sorrow's  wave  I  perish, 

Death !  thy  bed  shall  be  my  home. 

LADY. 
Maiden,  cease  my  heart  to  sever, 

Child  of  mourning,  dry  your  tears, 
I  will  be  your  friend  forever — 

^  I  will  guard  your  future  years  ; 
I  have  never  known  that  gladness, 

Which  a  mother's  heart  must  own  ; 
Crown'd  with  wealth,  but  vailed  in  sadness, 

I  have  sipped  its  sweets  alone. 
Shall  I  leave  thee.  then,  to  perish, 

While  thro'  flowery  paths  I  roam  ? 
No,  my  cares  thy  form  shall  cherish, 

And  my  dwelling  be  thy  home. 
Bless'd  in  fondly  watching  o'er  thee, 

Love  shall  every  grief  beguile ; 
May  the  shade  of  her  who  bore  thee, 

On  our  sacred  compact  smile. 


THE  TUMULUS.* 

ETERNAL  vestige  of  departed  years ! 

Mysterious  signet  of  a  race  gone  by, 
Unscath'd  while  Ruin  o'er  the  earth  careers, 
And  around  thy  base  the  wrecks  of  ages  lie. 
Reveal'st  thou  naught  to  the  inquiring  eye? 
What  fearful  changes  Time  has  given 

birth 
Since  first  thy  form,  where  now  the  oak 

towers  high, 

A  dark  gray  mass,  rose  from  the  verdant 
earth. 


*  Written  upon  visiting  one  of  the  stupendous  mounds 
hat  greet  the  eye  of  the  traveler  in  the  We.st. 


JULIA   L.   DUMONT. 


[1820-30. 


All !  where  are  those  who  proudly  trod  thy 

brow, 
Ere  yet  thy  bright  green  coronals  waved 

there — 
Tin-  strong,  the  brave,  their  race — where 

is  it  now  ? 

Earth's  living  nations  no  memorial  bear ! 
Where  then  the  sounds -of  hie  rose  on  the 

air, 
A  grave-like  silence,  long  and  deep,  has 

pass'd, 
Savr  when  the  wolf  howl'd  from  his  rocky 

lair, 
Or  owlet-screams  rose  on  the  fitful  blast. 

Bear'st  thou  no  trace  within   thy  sullen 

breast, 
Thou  seal'd-up  relic  of  the  mouldering 

dead  ? 

Is  there  no  record  on  thy  form  impress'd 
Of  those  who  rear'd  thee  from  thy  valley 

bed? 
Did  pale  Decay,  with  slow  though  lingering 

tread, 
Consign  their  race  to  nature's  common 

tomb? 
Or  sweeping  Plague,  with  blasting  wing 

outspread, 

Their  brightness  quench  in  everlasting 
gloom  ? 

And  thou,  that  mock'st  Destruction's  wrath 
ful  storm, 
While  living  worlds  beneath  its  blast  are 

crush'd, 
Say  for  what  end  the  dead  upheav'd  thy 

form, 

Or  consecrated  thus  thy  breathless  dust. 
Did  calm  Devotion  here,  with  holy  trust, 

Erect  her  temple  to  the  living  God  ? 
Or  lordly  Pride,  with  weak  ambition  flush'd, 
Heap  up  thy  dark  and  monumental  sod  ? 

Or    liid'st   thou   those,  in   thy  sepulchral 
breast, 

Who  erst  were  scattered  o'er  the  vales 
around  ? 


A  mighty  tomb,  where  nations,  laid  to  rest 
In   ghastly  sleep,  await   the   trumpet's 

sound. 
When  Earth's  dim  records  are  at  length 

unbound, 

And  in  her  last  funereal  lights  reveol'd, 
While  rising  bones  burst  from  their  prison 

ground, 

Shall  then  thy  heaving  brow  its  mys 
teries  yield? 

Vainly  I  ask — but  o'er  the  musing  soul 
A  noiseless  voice  comes  from  thy  dust 

to  chide : 

"Man  may  exult  in  glory's  glittering  roll, 
And  o'er  the  earth,  life,  for  a  while  pre 
side; 
But  learn  to  know  the  wreck  of  human 

pride! 
Her  fairest  names  time  may  at  length 

efface ; 

Dark  o'er  her  cities  flow  Oblivion's  tide, 
And  Death   abide  where  life  and  joy 
have  place." 


THE  HOME-BOUND  GREEKS.* 

DAYS,  weeks  and  months  wore  heavy  on, 

And  still  the  Grecian  bands 
Their  slow  but  glorious  pathway  won, 

Through  vast  barbarian  lands. 


*  On  the  fifth  day  they  came  to  the  mountain ;  and  the 
name  of  it  was  Theches.  When  the  men  who  were  in  the 
front  had  mounted  the  height,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
sea,  a  great  shout  proceeded  from  them  ;  and  Xenophon 
and  the  rear-guard,  on  hearing  it,  thought  that  some  new 
enemies  were  assailing  the  front,  for  in  the  rear,  too,  the  peo 
ple  from  the  country  that  they  had  burnt  were  following 
them,  and  the  rear-guard,  by  placing  an  ambuscade,  had 
killed  some,  and  taken  others  prisoners,  and  had  captured 
about  twenty  shields  made  of  raw  ox-hides  with  the  hair 
on.  But  as  the  noise  still  increased,  and  drew  nearer, 
and  as  those  who  came  up  from  time  to  time  kept  running 
at  full  speed  to  join  those  who  were  continually  shouting, 
the  cries  becoming  louder  as  the  men  became  more  nuiner- 


1820-30.] 


JULIA    L.    DUMONT. 


Their  glorious  path,  for  not  in  fear 

Turned  they  from  the  foeman's  plains; 

And  still  they  met  his  hovering  spear, 
With  a  might  that  mocked  at  chains. 

But  lingering  want  and  toil  have  power 
To  tame  the  strong  man's  soul, 

And  a  surer  work  than  the  conflict's  hour 
Hath  suffering's  slow  control. 

Those  men  who  thrilled  at  the  trumpet's 
blast, 

The  fearless  and  the  true, 
Grew  warm  and  haggard  as  they  passed 

TUe  desert's  perils  through. 

O'er  vast  and  trackless  mountain  snows, 

'Mid  precipices  wound, 
On  the  river's  bed  was  the  path  of  those 

For  home  and  freedom  bound. 

Yet  on,  still  on,  they  sternly  pressed ; 

How  might  he  sink  to  die, 
Who  must  give  his  dust  to  earth's  dark 
breast, 

Beneath  a  Persian  sky  ? 

But  while  the  still  and  gathered  soul 
The  purpose  strong  sustained, 

The  eye  grew  tame  that  had  flashed  control, 
And  the  haughty  strength  was  drained ; 

And  the  war-like  cheer  was  heard  no  more, 

Through  all  the  long  array, 
Though  many  a  province  trodden  o'er 

In  lengthening  distance  lay. 


ous,  it  appeared  to  Xenophon  that  it  must  be  something 
of  yery  great  moment.  Mounting  his  horse,  therefore, 
and  taking  with  him  Lycius  and  the  cavalry,  he  hastened 
forward  to  give  aid,  when  presently  they  heard  the  soldiers 
shouting,  "  The  sea,  the  sea !"  and  cheering  on  one  anoth 
er.  They  then  all  began  to  run,  the  rear-guard  as  well  as 
the  rest,  and  the  baggage-cattle  and  horses  were  put  to 
their  speed  ;  and  when  they  had  all  arrived  at  the  top,  the 
men  embraced  one  another,  and  their  generals  and  cap 
tains,  with  tears  in  their  eyes.  Suddenly,  whoever  it  was 
that  suggested  it,  the  soldiers  brought  stones,  and  raised 
a  large  mound,  on  which  they  laid  a  number  of  new  ox 
hides,  staves,  and  shields  taken  from  the  enemy.  XENO- 
PIION'S  ANABASIS.  Bokn's  Classical  Library,  pages  137-8 


Their  step  had  lost  the  warrior's  pride, 

Yet  on  they  moved — still  on  ; 
And  their  way  now  threads  a  mountain's     | 
side, 

Whose  steeps  the  skies  had  won. 

Slowly,  with  weak  and  weary  limbs, 
They  reach  that  mountain  brow, 

And  their  glance  is  turned,  though  with 

sadness  dim, 
To  the  distant  vales  below. 

Fair  gleamed  those  vales  of  smiling  peace, 
Through  summer's  shining  haze, 

Outstretching  far  ;  but  was  it  these 
That  fixed  their  straining  gaze  ? 

The  hollow  cheek  grows  strangely  flushed ! 

The  sunken  eye  has  light ! 
With  some  strong  thought  their  souls  seem 
ed  hushed — 

Does  mirage  mock  their  sight  ? 

Beyond  those  valleys  still  away, 

A  line  of  glittering  sheen 
Told  where  the  blue  Euxinus  lay, 

With  its  isles  of  living  green. 

"  The  sea !    the  sea ! "  the  stormy  sound 

broke — 

Their  souls  shook  off  the  doubt ; 
And   the   startled  rocks  of  the  mountain 

woke 
With  the  loud  and  thrilling  shout. 

There,  there,  beneath  that  same  fair  sky, 
Did  the  fires  of  their  altars  burn ; 

And  the  homes  where  love  with  fading  eye 
Kept  watch  for  their  return. 

All  tender  thoughts  and  feelings  high, 

All  memories  of  the  free, 
Found  utterance  in  that  long,  wild  cry, 

"  The  sea !  the  sea !  the  sea ! " 

As  of  meeting  waves,  the  uplifted  sound 

Deepened  in  gathering  might ; 
From  rank  to  rank  the  shout  profound 

Swelled  o'er  the  mountain  height. 


.VI 


JULIA    L .    D  U  M  O  N  T . 


[1820-30. 


One  only  sound — "  The  sea !  the  sea !" 

Filled  all  the  echoing  sky ; 
For  ten  thousand  voices,  high  and  free, 

Blend  in  the  pealing  cry. 

If  such  were  the  mighty  burst 
To  an  earthly  home  but  given, 

How  shall  the  Christian  hosts  greet  first 
The  glorious  gates  of  heaven  ? 


MY  DAUGHTER  NURSE.* 

I  HEAR  her  still — that  buoyant  tread, 
How  soft  it  falls  upon  my  heart ; 

I've  counted,  since  she  left  my  bed, 
Each  pulse  that  told  of  time  a  part 

Yet  in  a  dreamy  calm  I've  lain, 

Scarce  broke  by  fitful  pain's  strong  thrill, 
As  one  who  listening  waits  some  strain 

Wont  every  troubled  thought  to  still. 

And  o'er  me  yet  in  visions  sweet, 
The  image  of  my  precious  child, 

Plying  e'en  now  with  busy  feet, 

Some  tender  task — for  me  has  smiled. 

Oh  !  youth  and  health  :  rich  gifts  and  high 
Are    those  wherewith   your  hours  are 
crown'd  ; 

The  balm,  the  breath  of  earth  and  sky — 
The  gladsome  sense  of  sight  and  sound. 

The  conscious  rush  of  life's  full  tide, 
The  dreams  of  hope  in  fairy  bowers: 

Action  and  strength,  their  glee  and  pride, 
Are  portions  of  your  laughing  hours. 


1  The  last  lines  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Dumont. 


But,  still  to  dim  and  wasting  life, 

Thou  bringest  dearer  gifts  than  these : 

Gifts,  that  amid  pale,  suffering  strife, 
Love,  filial  love,  beside  me  wreathes. 

Sweet  draughts  fresh-drawn  from   love's 
deep  spring, 

Still  lull  my  many  hours  of  pain, 
And  not  all  summer  joys  might  bring 

A  draught  so  pure  from  earthly  stain. 

Why  is  it  that  thus  faint  and  prone 
I  may  not  raise  my  languid  head  ! — 

A  daughter's  arms  around  me  thrown 
Yet  lift  me  from  my  weary  bed. 

And  what  have  flowers  or  skies  the  while 
To  waken  in  a  mother's  breast, 

Soft  gladness  like  the  beaming  smile 
With  which  she  lays  me  back  to  rest  ? 

Those  smiles,  when  all  things  round  me 
melt 

In  slumberous  mist,  my  spirit  fill : 
As  light  upon  closed  eyelids  felt 

Beneath  their  curtaining  shadow  still. 

And  still  in  happy  dreams  I  hear, 

While  angel  forms  seem  o'er  me  bent, 

Her  tones  of  ever-tender  cheer, 

With  their  high  whisperings  softly  blent. 

But  hush !   that  is  her  own  light  tread, 
It  is  her  hand  upon  my  brow ; 

And  leaning  silent  o'er  my  bed, 
Her  eyes  in  mine  are  smiling  now. 

My  child,  my  child,  you  bring  me  flowers — 
Spring's  fragrant  gift  to  deck  my  room ; 

But  through  the  dark,  drear,  wint'ry  hours 
Love — love  alone  has  poured  perfume. 


MICAH  P.  FLINT. 


MICAH  P.  FLINT,  son  of  Timothy  Flint,  who  rendered  eminent  service  in  the  cul 
tivation  and  encouragement  of  literature  in  the  Mississippi  valley,  was  born  in  Lu- 
renberg,  Massachusetts,  about  the  year  1807.  While  Micah  was  yet  a  boy,  his 
father  selected  the  West  as  a  field  for  missionary  labor,  and  the  young  poet  received 
his  education,  with  his  father  for  tutor,  at  St.  Louis,  New  Madrid,  New  Orleans,  and 
Alexandria,  Mississippi,  to  which  places  Rev.  Mr.  Flint's  engagements  as  a  missionary 
successively  called  him.  When  failing  health  finally  required  his  father  to  suspend 
his  labors  as  a  minister,  Micah  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Alexandria, 
but  was  not  permitted  to  become  known  as  a  lawyer.  His  first  published  poem  de 
scribed  mounds  that  stood  near  a  farm-house  in  Cahokia  prairie,  Illinois,  to  which  for  a 
few  months,  when  his  health  required  a  respite  from  severe  labors,  his  father  took  the 
family.  It  was  written  in  1825,  and  was  printed  in  Timothy  Flint's  "  Ten  Years  in 
the  Mississippi  Valley."  In  the  same  work  are  several  other  poems  by  Micah,  which 
have  merit  enough  to  justify  the  evident  pride  his  father  took  in  them.  In  1826, 
"  The  Hunter,  and  other  Poems,"  a  thin  duodecimo  volume,  was  published  in  Boston. 
"The  Hunter"  is  a  narrative  of  the  adventures  of  a  backwoodsman,  who,  on  account 
of  Indian  outrages,  had  become  a  Hermit.  It  is  not  vigorously  executed,  but  contains 
a  few  pictures  which  may  now  be  deemed  interesting.  In  a  dedication  to  Josiah  S. 
Johnston,  United  States  Senator  from  Louisiana,  the  author  said  of  it : 

Neither  leisure  nor  the  shade  and  the  books  of  academic  establishments,  nor  the  excitement  of 
literary  societies,  hud  any  share  in  eliciting  it.  It  was  produced  in  the  intervals  of  the  severest 
studies,  and  where  swamps,  alligators,  miasm,  musquitoes.  and  the  growing  of  cotton,  might  seem 
to  preclude  the  slightest  effort  of  the  muse  ;  and  where  the  ordinary  motive  to  action  is  with  one 
hand  to  fence  with  death  and  with  the  other  to  grasp  at  the  rapid  accumulation  of  wealth. 

In  a  poem  written  two  years  later,  the  following  stanzas  occur : 

I  was  permitted,  in  my  youthful  folly, 

To  write,  and  send  a  book  forth,  once  myself ; 
And  now  it  makes  me  feel  right  melancholy, 

When  e'er  by  chance  I  see  it  on  a  shelf: 
Not  that  I  think  the  book  was  common  trash, 

But,  that  it  cost  some  hundred  dollars  cash. 

In  1827,  Timothy  Flint  started,  at  Cincinnati,  The  Western  Review,  a  monthly 
magazine  of  much  value,  which  was  continued  three  years.  Micah  was  a  frequent, 
contributor.  In  an  article  written  at  the  close  of  the  first  volume,  his  father  said  : 

The  poetry,  except  two  articles,  has  been  altogether  original,  and  of  domestic  fabric.  That  the 
public  begin  rightly  to  estimate  the  powers  of  the  chief  contributor  in  this  department,  we  have 
the  most  grateful  and  consoling  testimonials.  Every  one  remarks,  and  most  truly,  that  editors 
ought  to  have  good  steel  wire  instead  of  nerves.  But  we  do  not  see  the  cruel  necessity  that  an 

(  55) 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


[1820-30. 


editor  should  not  have  a  heart.  The  "Camp  Meeting/'  we  are  told,  has  found  its  way  into  the 
most  extensively  circulated  journal  in  the  United  States,  a  religious  paper  edited  with  a  great  deal 
of  talent,  *  *  *— the  Methodist  Magazine,  of  New  York.  Whatever  be  the  general  dearth  of  poetical 
feeling,  and  however  capricious  the  standard  of  poetical  excellence,  it  cannot  but  be  that  some  kin 
dred  eye  will  rest  upon  the  poetry  in  this  volume,  and  that  a  congenial  string  will  be  harped  in  some 
heart.  In  the  structure  of  poetry,  the  public  seems  to  demand  nothing  more  than  pretty  words 
put  into  ingenious  rhythm,  with  a  due  regard  to  euphony.  In  conformity  to  that  taste,  we  have 
inserted  some  poetry  which  we  considered  made  up  rather  with  reference  to  words  than  pictures 
and  thoughts.  But  we  have  flattered  ourselves  that  the  greater  amount  has  had  something  of  the 
ancient  simplicity  and  force  to  recommend  it  to  those  who  had  a  taste  for  that,  and  has  had  an  aim 
to  call  the  mind  "  from  sound  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart."  We  have  an  humble  hope  that  if 
the  author  of  these  verses  survives  the  chances  of  the  distant  and  deadly  climate  in  which  his  lot 
is  cast,  and  is  not,  in  the  hackneying  cares  of  life,  deprived  of  the  visitings  of  the  muse,  the  time 
will  come  when  no  man  that  has  any  living  and  permanent  name  as  a  writer  and  a  poet,  will  be 
forward  to  proclaim  that  he  did  not  discover  the  powers  of  the  writer  ;  or,  after  investigation, 
viewed  them  with  disapprobation. 

That  hope  of  a  fond  father,  so  confidently  expressed,  is  not  without  fulfillment,  but 
the  poet  did  not  survive  the  chances  of  the  deadly  climate  in  which  he  had  prepared 
himself  for  activity  in  a  new  sphere.  He  died  in  the  year  1830. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  THE  HUNTER." 

THE  MOUNTAIN  STORM. 

THE  storm  had  passed,  but  not  in  wrath, 
For  ruin  had  not  marked  its  path, 
O'er  that  sweet  vale,  where  now  was  seen 
A  bluer  sky,  and  brighter  green. 
There  was  a  milder  azure  spread 
Around  the  distant  mountain's  head ; 
And  every  hue  of  that  fair  bow, 
Whose  beauteous  arch  had  risen  there, 
Now  sunk  beneath  a  brighter  glow, 
And  melted  into  ambient  air. 
The  tempest,  which  had  just  gone  by, 
Still  hung  along  the  eastern  sky, 
And  threatened,  as  it  rolled  away. 
The  birds  from  every  dripping  spray, 
W<T<«  pouring  forth  their  joyous  mirth. 
The  torrent,  with  its  waters  brown, 
From  rock  to  rock  came  rushing  down; 
While,  from  among  the  smoking  hills, 
The  voices  of  a  thousand  rills 
W<-n-  heard,  exulting  at  its  birth. 
A  breeze  came  whispering  through  the  wood, 
And,  from  its  thousand  tresses,  shook 


The  big  round  drops,  that  trembling  stood, 
Like  pearls,  in  every  leafy  nook. 

THE  SUGAR  GAMP. 

It  was  a  valley  down  whose  slope 
A  streamlet  poured  its  full  spring  tide, 
With  gentle  swells  on  either  side, 
Slow  rising  to  their  distant  cope ; 
By  Nature  planted  with  that  tree, 
Whose  generous  veins,  when  pierced  for  use, 
Pour   forth  their  rich,  nectarcous  juice, 
Like  Patriot  life-blood,  rich,  though  free. 
Its  new  sprung,  red,  sharp-pointed  leaves, 
Almost  the  first,  that  Flora  weaves, 
Already  twinkling  in  the  blast, 
Proclaimed  "  the  season  "  almost  past ; 
When  on  that  eve,  that  vale  along, 
The  joyous  shout,  the  merry  song, 
The  laugh  of  age,  and  youthful  glee, 
Rung  out  the  forest  jubilee. 

A  hundred  fires  were  blazing  bright ; 
And  by  their  wild,  yet  cheerful  light, 
The  magic  scene  was  all  displayed. 
A  table  stretched  from  shade  to  shade, 


18_0  -3J.] 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


Fresh  smoking  with  its  rude  repast, 
And  grouped  in  converse,  here  and  there, 
Were  seen  the  men,  whose  hoary  hair 
Told  that  the  fire  of  youth  had  past. 
There,  too,  in  neatest  garb  arrayed, 
Were  many  a  happy  youth  and  maid. 
Some  sat  retired,  to  say  and  hear 
Things  only  meant  for  love's  own  ear ; 
While  others  turned  with  conscious  glance 
To  join  the  merry-footed  dance. 
There,  too,  around  the  blazing  fires, 
O'er  which  the  bubbling  caldrons  boiled, 
The  slave,  alternate,  danced  and  toiled, 
Now  sung  the  rude  song  of  his  sires ; 
Though  on  his  ear  its  wild  sounds  rung, 
Like  accents  from  a  foreign  tongue, 
Now  with  his  little  ladle  dipped 
The  liquid  sweet,  and  slowly  sipped 
As  though  he  lingered  on  the  taste, 
And  now  with  skill  and  nicest  care, 
Drew  off  the  thick  and  grainy  paste, 
To  form  its  crystals  in  the  air. 
All  hearts  were  glad ;  all  faces  gay, 
There  was  no  strife,  no  rude  alloy ; 
Such  as  in  this  degenerate  day 
Will  rise  to  mar  the  common  joy. 
To  fancy's  eye  it  might  have  seemed 
As  though  the  golden  days  of  yore 
Had  circled  back  to  earth  once  more ; 
And  brought  again  that  guileless  mirth 
Which  bards  have  sung  and  sages  dreamed 
In  bright  reversion  yet  for  earth. 


MOONLIGHT  IN  THE  FOREST. 

The  moon  shone  bright,  and  her  silvery 

light 

Through  the  forest  aisles  was  glancing, 
And    with    mimic   beam  on  the    rippling 

stream 

A  thousand  stars  were  dancing. 
No  noise  was  heard  save  the  night's  lone 

bird, 

From  his  dark  and  dreary  dwelling ; 
Or  the  distant  crash  of  some  aged  ash, 
Which  the  ax  of  time  was  felling. 


THE  MOUNDS  OF  CAHOKIA. 

THE  sun's  last  rays  were  fading  from  the 

West, 
The  deepening  shades  stole  slowly  o'er  the 

plain, 

The  evening  breeze  had  lulled  itself  to  rest ; 
And  all  was  silent,  save  the  mournful  strain 
With  which  the  widowed  turtle  wooed  in 

vain 
Her  absent  lover  to  her  lonely  nest. 

Now,  one  by  one,  emerging  to  the  sight, 
The  brighter  stars  assumed  their  seats  on 

high. 
The  moon's  pale  crescent  glowed  serenely 

bright, 

As  the  last  twilight  fled  along  the  sky, 
And  all  her  train  in  cloudless  majesty 
Were  glittering  on  the  dark,  blue  vault  of 

night. 

I  lingered,  by  some  soft  enchantment  bound, 
And  gazed,  enraptured,  on  the  lovely  scene. 
From  the  dark  summit  of  an  Indian  mound 
I  saw  the  plain,  outspread  in  softened  green, 
Its  fringe  of  hoary  cliffs,  by  moonlight  sheen, 
And  the  dark  line  of  forest,  sweeping  round. 

I  saw  the  lesser  mounds  which  round  me 

rose, 

Each  was  a  giant  mass  of  slumbering  clay. 
There  slept  the  warriors,  women,  friends 

and  foes. 

There,  side  by  side,  the  rival  chieftains  lay ; 
And  mighty  tribes,  swept  from  the  face  of 

day, 
Forgot  their  wars,  and  found  a  long  repose. 

Ye  mouldering  relics  of  departed  years! 
Your  names  have  perished;    not  a  trace 

remains, 
Save,  where  the  grass-grown  mound   its 

summit  rears 
From  the  green  bosom  of  your  native  plains. 


58 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


[1820-30. 


Say !  do  your  spirits  wear  oblivion's  chains? 
Did  death  forever  quench  your  hopes  and 
fears  ? 

Or  live  they,  shrined  in  some  congenial 

form  ? 
What  if  the  swan,  who  leaves  her  summer 

nest 
Among  the  northern  lakes,  and  mounts  the 

storm, 

To  wing  her  rapid  flight  to  climes  more  blest, 
Should  hover  o'er  the  very  spot  where  rest 
The  crumbling  bones  once  with  her  spirit 

warm. 

What,  if  the  song,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  clear, 
Whose  music  fell  so  gently  from  on  high, 
In  tones  aerial,  thrilling  my  rapt  ear ; 
Though  not  a  speck  was  on  the  cloudless 

Were  their  own  soft  funereal  melody, 
While  lingering  o'er  the  scenes  that  once 
were  dear  ? 

Or  did  those  fairy  hopes  of  future  bliss, 
Which  simple  Nature  to  your  bosoms  gave, 
Find  other  worlds  with  fairer  skies  than 

this, 

Beyond  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  grave, 
In  whose  bright  bowers  the  virtuous  and 

the  brave 
Rest  from  their  toils,  and  all  their  cares 

dismiss? 

Where  the  great  hunter  still  pursues  the 

chase, 
And  o'er  the  sunny  mountains  tracks  the 

deer, 

Or  finds  again  each  long-extinguished  race, 
And  sees  once  more  the  mighty  mammoth 

rear 

The  L'iant  form  which  lies  embedded  here 
Of  other  years  the  sole  remaining  trace. 

Or  it  may  be  that  still  ye  linger  near 
The  sleeping  ashes,  once  your  dearest  pride 
And,  could  your  forms  to  mortal  eye  appear 


Could  the  dark  veil  of  death  be  thrown 

aside, 
Then  might  I  see  your  restless  shadows 

glide, 
With  watchful  care,  around  these  relics 

dear. 

[f  so,  forgive  the  rude,  unhallowed  feet, 
Which    trode    so    thoughtless    o'er    your 

mighty  dead. 
[  would  not  thus  profane  their  low  retreat, 
STor  trample  where  the  sleeping  warrior's 

head 

Lay  pillowed  on  its  everlasting  bed, 
Age  after  age,  still  sunk  in  slumbers  sweet. 

Farewell ;  and  may  you  still  in  peace  re 
pose. 

Still  o'er  you  may  the  flowers,  untrodden, 
bloom, 

And  gently  wave  to  every  wind  that  blows, 

Breathing  their  fragrance  o'er  each  lonely 
tomb, 

Where,  earthward  mouldering,  in  the  same 
dark  womb, 

Ye  mingle  with  the  dust,  from  whence  ye 
rose. 


THE  WARRIOR'S  EXECUTION. 

BESIDE  the  stake,  in  fetters  bound. 

A  captive  warrior  lay, 
And  slept  a  sleep  as  sweetly  sound, 

As  children's  after  play  ; 
Although  the  morrow's  sun  would  come 
To  light  him  to  his  martyrdom. 

And  as  he  slept,  a  cheering  dream 

His  flitting  hours  beguil'd: 
He  stood  beside  his  native  stream, 

And  clasped  his  first-born  child. 
The  wife,  that  drest  his  hunter-fare, 
And  all  his  little  ones  were  there. 


1820-30.] 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


59 


The  buried  feelings  of  past  years 
With  that  sweet  vision  sprung, 

'Till  his  clos'd  lids  were  moist  with  tears, 
That  anguish  had  not  wrung. 

But  they  were  kindly  tears — not  weak, 

That  cours'd  each  other  down  his  cheek. 

Again  he  heard  those  accents  dear — 

No — 'twas  the  savage  yell, 
That  burst  upon  his  sleeping  ear, 

And  broke  the  magic  spell. 
A  moment — and  his  waken'd  eye 
Had  scorch'd  its  lingering  moisture  dry. 

The  sun  sprang  up  the  morning  sky, 

And  roll'd  the  mists  away  ; 
But  he  was  nerv'd  to  sufferance  high; 

And  saw  without  dismay 
That  cheerful  sun  in  glory  rise, 
As  though  to  mock  his  agonies. 

Amid  the  flames,  proud  to  the  last, 

His  warrior-spirit  rose, 
And  looks  of  scorn,  unblenching,  cast 

Upon  his  circling  foes : 
"  Think  ye  I  feel  these  harmless  fires  ? 
No — by  the  spirits  of  my  sires ! 

"  I,  that  have  made  your  wigwams  red, 
Your  women  captive  borne, 

And  from  your  bravest  chieftain's  head 
The  badge  of  triumph  torn  : 

Think  ye  I  feel  these  harmless  fires  ? 

No — by  the  spirits  of  my  sires  ! 

"  This  frame  to  ashes  ye  may  burn, 
And  give  the  winds  in  vain; 

I  know  ye  cannot  thus  return 

Your  friends,  these  hands  have  slain : 

Think  ye  I  feel  these  harmless  fires  ? 

No — by  the  spirits  of  my  sires ! 

"  Shades  of  my  Fathers  ! — oh  draw  near, 
And  greet  me  from  the  flame : 

My  foes  have  drawn  no  coward-tear, 
To  stain  my  warrior  fame  ; 


Nor  wrung  one  plaint  amid  these  fires, 
To  shame  the  spirits  of  my  sires. 

"  They  come — on  yonder  fleecy  cloud 
Slow  sails  the  shadowy  throng ; 

They  bend  them  from  their  misty  shroud, 
And  catch  my  dying  song : 

I  mount  in  triumph  from  these  fires, 

To  join  the  spirits  of  my  sires." 


THE  CAMP  MEETING. 

THERE  is  a  lovely  vale,  that,  isle-like, 

sleeps 

Embosom'd  in  the  rough  and  craggy  hills 
Of    Tennessee.       Girt   round,  as    with   a 

storm 

Toss'd  sea,  by  mountains  hoar,  precipitous 
And  wild,  its  verdant  basin  lies  at  rest, 
And   in   the  summer-sunshine  smiles,  as 

'twere 

A  soft  and  beauteous  dimple  on  the  harsh 
And  furrow'd  visage  of  the  land.     'Twas 

eve, 
The  loveliest  of  the  spring,  and  in  that 

vale, 
From  their  far  homes  among  the  distant 

hills, 

And  desert  solitudes,  a  mighty  throng 
Had  gather'd  round,  to  meet  and  worship 

GOD. 
There  were  the  gray-hair'd  fathers  of  the 

land; 
And   there,  in   sober  manhood's   hardiest 

prime, 
Their    forest-sons.     And  their  sons'  sons 

were  there; 

Their  young  eyes  glist'ning  with  the  looks 
Of  aw'd  and  wondering  curiosity. 
And  there  were  mothers  with  their  infant 

babes, 
Delightful   burdens,    slumbering   in    their 

arms; 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


[1820-30. 


And  aged  matrons,  and  the  young  and  fair- 
Hair'd  maidens,  with  their  eyes  of  light, 

and  looks 
That  told  the  sweet  day-dreams  of  youth 

and  hope. 
There  were  the  young  divines,  severely 

plain 

In  dress,  and  look  of  sanctity ;  and  there 
Old  pilgrims  of  the  cross,  whose  wander 
ing  feet, 
For  three-score  years,  had  borne  to  cities 

full, 

To  crowded  populous  plains,  and  to  the  few, 
That  met  and  worship'd  in  the  wilderness, 
The  Gospel's  peaceful  mission ;  who  had 

preach'd 
From  the  broad  Lawrence  and  his  nursing 

lakes, 
To   streams    that  ripple  in  the  southern 

breeze  ; 

And  still  the  burden  of  their  theme,  to  laud 
The  power  of  Him  who  died  upon  the 

tree. 

Such  was  the  crowd,  that  from  their  dis 
tant  homes 

Had  met,  and  peopled  that  green  solitude. 
The  shades  of  evening  slowly  gather'd 

round, 

And  deepen'd  into  gloom,  until  at  length 
Their  bright  and  cheerful  fires  were  kin 
dled  up, 
And  they  in  many  a  scatter'd  group  were 

seen, 

Some  visiting  around  from  tent  to  tent ; 
Some  meeting   in  the   midst   with  inter 
change 

Of  friendly  questionings  and  words  of  love, 
And  greetings  apostolic.  And  there  were 
That  walk'd  apart,  as  though  wrapt  up  in 

deep 

And  solitary  meditations.     They, 
Perchance,  dwelt  on  the  coming  rites,  and 

girt 

Them  for  the  sanctuary's  services. 
Meanwhile  the  mountains  with  their  tow'r- 
ing  peaks, 


Stood  forth,  their  blackening  masses  pic- 
tur'd  on 

The  sky,  as  from  behind  their  summits  ro>e 

The  full-orb'd  moon,  and  far  o'er  hills  and 
vales 

Her  pale  and  melancholy  radiance  cast. 

Her  slanting  rays  glanc'd  through  the  open 
ing  trees, 

And  here  and  there,  at  intervals  between 

Their  branches,  some  bright  star  was  seen, 
as  'twere 

A  living  spirit,  looking  forth  from  its 

Blue  resting  place.  But  the  dim  light  of 
moon 

And  stars  shone  feebly  through  that  for 
est's  gloom, 

Nor  lighted  up  its  somber  aisles,  obscure 

And  dun,  save  where  a  thousand  torches 
from 

Its  giant  trunks  suspended,  shed  around 

Their  fiery  brilliance,  and  display'd  its 
broad 

And  overhanging  arches,  and  its  huge 

And  ivy-wreathed  columns,  till  it  seem'd 

A  glorious  temple,  worthy  of  a  God. 

At  length  the  hour  of  evening  worship 
came ; 

And  on  their  rustic  seats,  fresh  cleft,  and 
hewn 

From  the  huge  poplars,  and  in  many  a 
range 

Of  circling  rows  dispos'd,  in  quiet  sat 

The  expectant  multitude.  Oh,  'twas  a 
scene ! 

The  silent  thousands,  that  were  list'ning 
there, 

'Midst  the  gray  columns  of  that  ancient 
wood, 

Its  dark  green  roof,  the  rows  of  whitening 
tents, 

That  circled  in  the  distance,  and  the  clear 

And  sparkling  waters  of  the  mountain- 
stream, 

In  torch-light  gleaming,  as  it  danc'd  along ; 

And,  more  than  all,  the  rustling  leaves,  that 
caught 


1820-30.] 


M I C  A  H    P  .    FLINT. 


6] 


On   their    moist    surfaces    the    light,    and 

wav'd 

On  every  bough,  now  in  their  native  green, 
And  now  in  burnished  gold.     The  preach 
er  rose : 

He  was  an  aged  veteran  of  the  cross, 
Whose  thin,  gray  locks  had  whiten'd  in 

the  snows 
Of  four-score  winters,  and  whose  feeble 

sight 

No  longer  from  their  letter'd  tablets  conn'd 
The  chosen  text,  and  answering  song  of 

praise ; 
But    with   a    memory     quicken'd,   till    it 

seem'd 

Almost  an  inspiration,  and  a  voice 
That  age  alone  made  tremulous,  he  spoke 
A  simple,  well  known  hymn.     And  when 

he  ceas'd, 

From  the  deep  silence  of  that  desert  vale,. 
A  mighty  sound,  the  mingling  voices  of 
A  thousand  tongues,  in  one  proud  anthem 

rose  ; 
And   as   it   rose,   far    through   its   hoary 

depths, 
The  forest  shook;  and  from   the   distant 

hills, 

Like  the  far  rush  of  many  waters,  deep, 
Long,  and  reverberating  echoes  came. 
Loud  burst  the  song ;  now  swelling  to  the 

sky — 
Now  soft'ning  down,  and  at  each  measur'd 

close, 

Along  the  woods  expiring ;  till  at  length 
'Twas  hush'd  into  a  stillness  so  intense, 
That  the  half  sigh  of  penitence  alone, 
Throughout  that  multitude,  was  audible. 
And  then  again  that  trembling  voice  was 

heard, 

In  fervent  accents,  breathing  forth  the  warm 
And  heavenward  aspirations  of  a  soul, 
Whose  stragglings  shook  its  weak  old  tene 
ment. 
His  words  were  simple,  humble,  solemn, 

deep — 
Such  as  befit  a  prostrate  sinner's  lips, 


When  from  the  depths  his  earnest  cries  as 
cend 

Up  to  the  mercy-seat ;  yet  words  of  power ; 
As  'twere  strong  wrestlings,  that  would  not 

release 

The  cov'nant  angel,  till  the  jubilee 
Of  slaves,  enfranchis'd  from  the  iron  chains 
Of  sin  and  hell,  announced  the  captive  free. 
And  then  he  plead,  that  brighter  scenes  of 

things, 

And  glad  millennial  days  of  promise  yet 
In  this  dark  world  might  dawn  upon  his  eye, 
And  truth  and  mercy  fill  the  peopled  earth, 
E'en  as  the  waters  fill  their  pathless  beds. 
And  then,  invoking  audience  for  a  theme, 
To  which  the-  babbling  tricks  of  eloquence 
Of  Greece  and  Rome  were  children's  idle 

sports, 
He  rose,  to  lure  back  wandering  souls  to 

God. 

His  burden  was,  "  I  tell  you  there  is  joy 
In    heaven,   when    one    repentant    sinner 

comes 

Home  to  his  God."     The  trembling  orator, 
Pois'd  on  his  mighty  task,  and  with  his 

theme, 

Warm'd  into  power,  applied  the  golden  key, 
That  opes  the  sacred  fount  of  joy  and  tears. 
His  solemn  paintings  flash'd  upon  the  eye 
The  hopeless  realms,  where  dwells  impeni 
tence, 

The  tearless  mansions  of  a  happier  world; 
The  Eternal  sitting  on  his  spotless  throne 
For  judgment,  and  an  universe  arraign'd 
For  doom,  unchanging,  as  his  truth  and 

power. 

Deem  not  I  fondly  dare  the  hopeless  task 
To  paint  the  force  of  sacred  eloquence, 
Or   trace   the   holy  man  through  all   his 

theme. 

Were  all  like  him,  thus  fearlessly  to  grasp 
The  pillars  of  the  dark  colossal  towers 
Of  the  destroyer's  kingdom,  till  it  shook, 
A  happier  era  soon  might  dawn  to  earth. 
E'en  yet  in  better  hours  o'er  memory  comes 
His  picture  of  the  wand'ring  prodigal, 


MIC  AH    P.   FLINT. 


[1820-30. 


With  devious,  comet-course,  receding  still 
From  God  and  hope  to  mercy's  utmost 

verge ; 

And  there  arrested  by  th'  unceasing  power 
Of  the  great  Shepherd's  love,  and  by  di 
vine 

Attraction  turn'd,  and  circling  back  to  God. 
The  choral  anthems  still,  methinks,  I  hear, 
Svmphonious,  swelling  acclamations  loud 
From  heavenly  hosts,  to  hail  the  wanderer 

home. 
There  are,  to  whom  all  this  would  only 

seem 

Fit  subject  for  the  scorner's  idle  mirth. 
The  cold  and  scanning  critic's  sneer  I  felt 
Were  out  of  place.     But  flitting  visions 

pass'd, 
Like  lightening  scorching  through  my  wil- 

der'd  brain; 
And  memory's  specters  sprang  up  from  the 

past. 
My   earth-born   schemes,  my   palaces  of 

hope, 

Lately  so  proud,  all  melted  into  air. 
Eternity,  and   truth,   and    God  alone,  re- 

main'd. 

T\vas  as  the  Great  Invisible  had  come 
In  power,  o'ershadowing  all  the  vale. 
I  almost  look'd,  to  see  the  mountains  smoke, 
Emitting  Sinai's  thunderings  and  fires. 
Nor  was  I  single ;  many  a  sin-worn  face 
Was  pale,  and  woman's  sympathetic  tears, 
And  children's  flow'd,and  men,  who  thought 

no  shame, 
In  tears.     The  proud  ones,  looking  down 

in  scorn 
From  fancied  intellectual  heights,  whose 

hearts 

The  world  had  sear'd ;  e'en  these,  uncon 
scious,  caught 
Tli'  infectious  weakness,  like  the  rest,  and 

though 

They  only  "came  to  mock,  remain'd  to 
pray." 


THE  SILENT  MONKS.* 

AMIDST  the  hundred  giant  mounds,  that  rise 
Above  Cahokia's  flowering  plains,  I  spent 
A  vernal  day.    The  cloudless  sun  rode  high, 
And  all  was  silent,  save  that  in  the  air, 
Above  the  fleecy  clouds,  careering  swans, 
With  trumpet  note,  sailed  slowly  to  the 

south ; 
And  a  soft  breeze  swept  gently  o'er  the 

grass, 

Moving  its  changing  verdure,  like  the  wave. 
A  few  religious  'mid  these  sepulchers 
Had  fixed  their  home.     In  sackcloth  clad 

they  were ; 
And  they  were  old  and  gray,  and  walked 

as  in  dreams, 
Emaciate,  sallow,   pale.     Their  furrowed 

brow, 

Though  now  subdued,  show'd  many  a  trace 
That  stormy  passions  once  had  wantoned 

there. 
I   asked    the  way,  the   country,  and   the 

tombs. 

One  finger  on  their  lip,  the  other  hand 
Raised  to  the  sky,  they  motion'd  me 
That  they  were  vowed  to  silence,  and  might 

give 
No  accent  to  their  thoughts.     'Tvvas  said 

around, 
That  they  had  deeply  sinn'd  beyond  the 


That  one  had  practiced  cruel  perjury 
To  a  fond  heart,  that  broke,  when  he  proved 

false  ; 
And  sunk  in  beauty's  blighted   bloom  to 

earth. 

Another,  for  an  idle  fray  in  wine,  that  rose 
For  venal  beauty,  slew  his  dearest  friend. 
A  third,  like  Lucifer,  had  fall'n  from  power. 
They  all  had  play'd  high  parts;  had  been 


*A  few  French  monks,  of  the  order  of  "  La  Trappe," 
vowed  to  perpetual  silence,  had  fixed  their  residence  near 
the  largest  of  the  numerous  Indian  mounds  that  are 
found  near  Gahokia.  in  the  American  Bottom,  not  far 
from  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Mississippi. 


18^0-30.] 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


63 


Where  pageants,  music,  beauty,  wine  and 

mirth, 

Ambition,  favor,  grandeur,  all  that  glares, — 
A  king  and  courtiers,  hated  and  caress'd, 
In  seeming  held  the  keys  of  love  and  joy. 
Remorse  had  smitten  them.     Her  snakes 

had  stung 
Their  hearts ;  and  the  deep  voice,  that  all 

on  earth 

Is  vanity,  had  scattered  their  gay  dreams. 
They  clad  themselves  in  hair,  and  took  a 

vow 

To  break  their  silence  only  at  the  tomb.* 
Haply,  they  thought  to  fly  from  their  dark 

hearts ; 
And  they  came  o'er  the  billow,  wand'ring 

still 
Far  to  the  West.    Here,  midst  a  boundless 

waste 
Of  rank  and  gaudy  flowers,  and  o'er  the 

bones 

Of  unknown  races  of  the  ages  past, 
They  dwelt.     Themselves   knew  not  the 

deep,  dark  thoughts 

Of  their  associates.  When  the  unbidden  tear 
Rose  to  their  eye,  they  dashed  away  to 

earth 
The  moisture;    but  might  never  tell  the 

source 
Whence  it  was  sprung ;  nor  joy,  nor  hope, 

nor  grief, 
Nor  fear  might  count,  or  tell,  or  share  their 

throbs. 
When    sweet   remembrance    of  the    past 

came  o'er 
Their  minds  in  joy,  no  converse  of  those 

years 
Might  soothe  the  present  sadness  of  their 

state. 
Man's  heart  is  made  of  iron,  or  'twould 

burst 

'  Midst  mute  endurances  of  woes,  like  these. 
I  saw  the  sun  behind  the  western  woods 


*  By  their  TOWS,  they  are  permitted  to  speak  just  before 
death. 


Go  down   upon  their  shorn   and   cowled 

heads. 
No  vesper  hymn  consoled  their  troubled 

thoughts. 
Far  o'er  the  plain  the  wolf's  lugubrious 

howl, 

The  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  nocturnal  cry 
Of  hooting  owls,  was  their  sad  evening  song. 


THE  BEECH  WOODS. 

GROVE,  rearing  thy  green  head  above  the 

smoke 

And  morning  mists,  I  bend  me  to  thy  shade, 
And  court  thy  shelter  from  the  ceaseless 

hum, 

And  wearying  bustle,  of  the  dusty  town, 
To  taste  thy  coolness,  privacy  and  peace. 
What  string  invisible,  sweet  beechen  wood, 
Know'st  thou  to  harp,  that  here  my  morning 

dreams 

Of  youth,  my  young  imaginings,  return 
In  all  the  freshness  of  their  rainbow  hues? 
My  earliest  love  was  for  the  dark  green 

woods. 
From   stinted   wishes,  cares  and  toils  at 

home, 
From  master's  frown  at  school,  the  bitter 

scorn 
Of  dark-ey'd  maids  belov'd,  that  vanquish'd 

me 

In  the  proud  struggles  of  the  dawning  mind ; 
From  all  the  sad  presages  of  the  years 
To  come,  the  cypress-woven  destiny, 
Which  my  young  eye,  prophetic,  ken'd  from 

far; 

From  emulation's  early  fires ;  from  pride, 
And  hope  just  op'ning  in  the   bud,  and 

nipp'd 

By  early  frost,  I  bounded  to  the  woods. 
The  stillness  reached  my  heart.     The  cool 
ing  shade 
Soon  taught  my  throbbing  pulses  rest. 


64 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


[1820-30. 


'  Twas,  as  the  grove  returu'd  my  youthful 

love, 

And  fondly  clasped  me  in  maternal  arms, 
And  on  her  mossy  pillow  laid  my  head. 
E'en  there  my  youthful  palaces  of  hope 
All  rose  amidst  the  trees.     My  fairy  scenes 
Of  love  and  joy  were  all  beneath  the  shade. 
Words  cannot  paint  the  visionary  thoughts 
That  rose,  spontaneous,  as  reclin'd  I  lay 
To  list  the  birds  that  struck  their  solemn 

notes, 

Unfrequent,  aw'd,  and  as  a  temple  hymn, 
With  turtle's  moan  at  close ;  and  saw  the 

flowers 

Bend  wkh  the  humble-bee,  as  from  their  cup 
It,  busy,  drew  ambrosia,  bearing  home 
The  yellow  plunder  on  its  loaded  thighs, 
And  traced  it  by  its  organ-tones  through  air, 
Sailing  from  sight,  like  a  dark,  fading  point. 
These  voices  from  the  spirit  of  the  groves 
With  gentle  whisperings  inspir'd  within 
A  holy  calm,  and  thoughts  of  love  and 

peace. 

And  since,  in'  forest  wanderings  of  years, 
Whene'er    my    course    led    through    the 

beechen  woods, 
The    Mantuan's    "spreading    beech"    to 

memory  sprung, 
Like  youthful  playmate  dear.    When  from 

the  bed 

Of  pain  arising,  my  first  feeble  steps 
Still  led  me  to  the  groves ;  and,  always  kind, 
Ye  never  taunted,  slander'd  me,  deceived, 
Mocked  at  my  sorrows;  proudly  shrunk 

away 

From  the  embraces  of  your  Druid  son. 
A-  mad'nmg  wrath  arose  within  my  breast, 
And   counsel'd   deep    revenge    for   cruel 

wrongs, 

In  the  >till  air  reposing,  your  green  heads 
Still  read  to  me  how  ye  had  gently  bent 
IJH'nrr'  the  storms  of  centuries,  unharm'd. 
Sweet  beechen  woods,  ye  soon  will  richly 

tint 
Witli  autumn's  gold  and  purple;  ye  would 

warn 


Your  votary  to  mellow  into  age, 

And  doff,  resigned,  the  flaunty  thoughts  of 

youth, 

Its  flowing  tresses,  and  its  unscathed  brow, 
E'en  as  your  fallen   leaves   plash  in  the 

stream. 

Accept,  ye  beechen  woods,  my  filial  thanks 
For  parent's  love  vouchsaf 'd  at  morn  and 

noon. 

Oh!  grant  me  shelter  in  your  shade  in  age. 
Teach  me  to  dwell  in  mem'ry,  neath  your 

boughs, 

On  the  companions  of  my  morning  dawn, 
Of  whom  but  few  still  walk  above  the  soil. 
Sweet  is  the  mem'ry  of  their  kindnesses. 
The  thought  of  each  by  distance,  time,  or 

death 

Is  render'd  holy.  Teach  me  patiently  to  wait 
Till  my  time  come.    Oh !  teach  me,  beechen 

woods, 
As  spring  will  clothe  your  boughs  again 

with  leaves, 
I,  too,  shall  spring  immortal  from  the  dust. 


THE  SHOSHONEE  MARTYR. 

IN  Sewasserna's  greenest  dell, 
Beside  its  clear  and  winding  stream, 
The  Shoshonee  at  evening  tell 
A  tale  of  truth,  that  well  might  seem 
A  poet's  wild  and  baseless  dream, 
If  many  an  eye  that  saw  the  sight, 
Were  not  as  yet  undimmed  and  bright, 
And  many  an  ear,  that  heard  it  all, 
Still  startled  by  the  sear  leaf's  fall. 

For  years  the  tribe  had  dwelt  in  peace, 
Amidst  the  free  and  full  increase, 
That  Nature  in  luxuriance  yields, 
From  their  almost  uncultur'd  fields, 
Without  one  scene  of  passing  strife 
To  mar  their  peaceful  village  life. 
The  buried  hatchet,  cased  in  rust, 
Had  almost  moulder'd  into  dust, 


1820-30.] 


MICAH    P.    FLINT. 


And  o'er  the  spot  where  it  was  laid, 
The  peace-tree  threw  a  broad'ning  shade, 
On  whose  green  turf  the  warriors  met, 
And  smok'd  the  circling  calumet 

At  length  Discord,  the  Fury,  came, 

Waving  her  murd'rous  torch  of  flame, 

And  kindled  that  intestine  fire, 

In  which  the  virtues  all  expire; 

Which,  like  the  lightning-flame,  burns  on 

More  fierce  for  being  rained  upon 

By  showers  of  tears,  which  vainly  drench 

A  fire,  that  blood  alone  can  quench. 

Two  chieftain  brothers  met  in  pride, 
While  brethren  warr'd  on  either  side, 
And  kindred  hands,  that  clasped  before, 
Were  deeply  dyed  in  kindred  gore. 
How  many  fought ;  how  many  fell ; 
It  boots  not  now  to  pause,  and  tell : 
Beside,  that  tale  may  be  another's — 
I  never  lov'd  the  strife  of  Brothers. 

On  a  smooth  plain,  of  living  green, 
Their  mingled  monuments  are  seen, 
In  turf-crown'd  hillocks,  circling  round 
The  fallen  Chieftain's  central  mound ; 
And  yearly  on  that  fatal  plain 
Their  kindred  meet,  and  mourn  the  slain, 
Wat'ring  their  humble  graves  anew 
With  fond  affection's  hallow'd  dew. 

When  time  and  truce  at  length  subdued 
The  fierceness  of  that  fatal  feud, 
The  Chieftain  sent  his  council  call, 
And  every  warrior  sought  the  hall, 
To  smoke  the  pipe,  and  chase  away 
The  memory  of  that  i'atal  fray. 

But  Justice  claims  another  life — 

Another  victim  to  that  strife  ; 

And  her  stern  law  may  not  be  chang'd; 

One  warrior  slumbers  unaveng'd. 

Some  one  must  die ;  for  life  alone 

Can  for  another  life  atone. 

It  was  at  length  decreed,  to  take 

A  victim,  for  atonement's  sake, 


By  lot,  from  those  against  whom  lay 
The  fearful  balance  of  that  day. 

The  solemn  trial  now  had  come, 
And,  slowly  to  the  measur'd  drum, 
March,  one  by  one,  the  victim  band, 
To  where  two  aged  warriors  stand 
Beside  a  vase,  whose  ample  womb 
Contains  the  fatal  lot  of  doom. 
That  mystic  rod,  prepared  with  care, 
Lies  with  three  hundred  others  there ; 
And  each,  in  turn,  his  fate  must  try, 
With  beating  heart  and  blindfold  eye. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  lifts  it  high ; 
The  owner  of  that  hand  must  die. 

Could  I  in  words  of  power  indite, 

I  would  in  thrilling  verse  recite 

How  many  came,  and  tried,  and  pass'd, 

Ere  the  dread  lot  was  drawn  at  last, 

By  a  lone  widow,  whose  last  son 

Follow'd  her  steps,  and  saw  it  done. 

I  would,  in  magic  strains,  essay 

To  paint  the  passions  in  their  play, 

And   all    their  deep-wrought  movements 

trace, 
Upon  that  son's  and  mother's  face. 

Yes, — I  would  picture,  even  now, 
The  paleness  of  her  care-worn  brow, 
The  tearless  marble  of  her  cheek, 
The  tender  voice  that  cried,  though  weak, 
In  tones  that  seem'd  almost  of  joy, — 
"At  least  it  is  not  thine,  my  boy  ! " 
I  would  describe  his  frantic  cry, 
When  the  dark  symbol  caught  his  eye ; 
The  look  of  fixed  and  settled  gloom 
With  which  he  heard  the  fatal  doom  ; 
And  the  flush'd  cheek,  and  kindling  glance, 
Which,  from  the  high  and  holy  trance 
Of  filial  inspiration,  caught 
The  brightness  of  his  glorious  thought, 
When  through  their  circling  ranks  he  press'd, 
And  thus  the  wondering  crowd  address'd : 

"  Hear  me,  ye  warriors,  I  am  young ; 
But  feelings,  such  as  prompt  my  tongue, 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


[1820-30. 


Might  even  to  a  child  impart 

That  living  language  of  the  heart, 

Which  needs  no  rules  of  age  nor  art 

To  recommend  its  warm  appeal 

To  every  bosom  that  can  feel. 

Oh !  let  my  grief-worn  mother  live, 

And,  for  her  life,  I'll  freely  give 

This  life  of  mine,  whose  youthful  prime 

Is  yet  unworn  by  toil  or  time. 

An  offering,  such  as  this,  will  please 

The  ghost,  whose  manes  ye  would  appease, 

More  than  the  last  few  days  of  one 

Whose  course  on  earth  is  almost  run. 

"  Her  aged  head  is  gray  with  years, 

Her  cheeks  are  channel'd  deep  with  tears ; 

While  every  lock  is  raven  now, 

Upon  my  smooth,  unfurrow'd  brow, 

And,  in  my  veins,  the  purple  flood 

Of  my  brave  father's  warrior  blood 

Is  swelling,  in  the  deep,  full  tide 

Of  youthful  strength,  and  youthful  pride. 

Her  trembling  steps  can  scarce  explore 

The  paths  she  trod  so  light  of  yore  ; 

While  I  can  match  the  wild  deer's  flight, 

On  level  plain,  or  mountain  height, 

And  chase,  untir'd,  from  day  to  day, 

The  flying  bison,  on  their  way. 

"  Oh !  ye  are  sons,  and  once  were  press'd 

In  fondness  to  a  mother's  breast. 

Think  of  her  soft  voice,  that  caress'd ; 

Her  arms,  where  ye  were  lull'd  to  rest ; 

Her  quivering  kiss,  that  was  impress'd 

So  fondly  on  your  sicken'd  brow ; 

Oh !  think  of  these,  and  tell  me  now, 

If  ye,  as  sons,  can  here  deny 

A  son  the  privilege  to  die 

For  her,  who  thus  wak'd,  watch'd,  and  wept, 

While  in  her  cradling  arms  he  slept. 

Ye  cannot     No, — there  is  not  one 

That  can  refuse  the  victim  son. 

W ardors,  the  young  man's  talk  is  done." 

TV  approving  shout,  that  burst  aloud 
From  all  that  wild,  untutor'd  crowd, 
Was  proof,  that  even  they,  the  rude 


Free  dwellers  of  the  solitude, 
Had  hearts  that  inly  thrill'd  to  view 
The  meed  to  filial  virtue  due. 

I  will  not  waste  my  time,  nor  oil, 
Upon  a  scene  that  I  should  spoil ; 
Nor  labor  to  describe  that  pair, 
Striving  in  fond  affection  there, — 
The  darling  son,  the  cherished  mother, — 
Which  should  die,  to  save  the  other. 

Ere  long  there  was  a  gather'd  throng, 
Whence  rose  a  wild  and  solemn  song, — 
The  death-song  of  that  martyr  son ; 
And  thus  his  plaintive  descant  run  : 

"  I  fear  not  the  silence,  nor  gloom  of  the 

grave  ; 
'Tis  a  pathway  of  shade  and  gay  flowers 

to  the  Brave, — 
For  it  leads  him  to  plains,  where  the  gleams 

of  the  sun 
Kindle  spring  in  their  path,  that  will  never 

be  done. 

"  Groves,  valleys  and  mountains,  bright 
streamlet  and  dell, 

Sweet  haunts  of  my  youth,  take  my  part 
ing  farewell ; 

Ye  braves  of  my  kindred,  and  thou,  moth 
er,  adieu ; 

Great  shades  of  my  Fathers,  I  hasten  to 
you !  " 

He  fell.     The  verdant  mound,  that  press'd 
Upon  his  young,  heroic  breast, 
By  warrior  hands  was  rear'd  and  dress'd. 
The  mother,  too,  ere  the  rude  breeze 
Of  winter's  wind  had  stripp'd  the  trees, 
Had  bow'd  her  head  in  grief,  and  died, 
And  there  she  slumbers  at  his  side. 
Hard  by  the  village  on  the  shore, 
Their  mounds  are  seen,  all  studded  o'er 
With  various  wild  flowers,  by  the  care 
Of  sons  and  mothers  planted  there ; 
And,  to  this  day,  they  tell  their  tale, 
In  Sewasserna's  dark,  green  vale. 


1820-30.] 


MIC  AH    P.    FLINT. 


67 


ON  PASSING  THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  SISTER.* 

ON  yonder  shore,  on  yonder  shore, 
Now  verdant  with  its  depth  of  shade, 

Beneath  the  white-armed  sycamore, 
There  is  a  little  infant  laid. 

Forgive  this  tear. — A  brother  weeps. — 

'  Tis  there  the  faded  floweret  sleeps. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone, 
The  summer's  forests  o'er  her  wave ; 

And  sighing  winds  at  autumn  moan 
Around  the  little  stranger's  grave, 

As  though  they  murmured  at  the  fate 

Of  one  so  lone  and  desolate. 

In  sounds  that  seem  like  sorrow's  own, 
Their  funeral  dirges  faintly  creep; 

Then  deep'ning  to  an  organ  tone, 
In  all  their  solemn  cadence  sweep, 

And  pour,  unheard,  along  the  wild, 

Their  desert  anthem  o'er  a  child. 

She  came,  and  passed.     Can  I  forget, 
How  we  whose  hearts  had  hailed  her  birth, 

Ere  three  autumnal  suns  had  set, 
Consigned  her  to  her  mother  earth ! 

Joys  and  their  memories  pass  away ; 

But  griefs  are  deeper  traced  than  they. 

We  laid  her  in  her  narrow  cell, 

We  heaped  the  soft  mould  on  her  breast; 


And  parting  tears,  like  rain-drops,  fell 

Upon  her  lonely  place  of  rest. 
May  angels  guard  it : — may  they  bless 
Her  slumbers  in  the  wilderness. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone : 
For,  all  unheard,  on  yonder  shore, 

The  sweeping  flood,  with  torrent  moan, 
At  evening  lifts  its  solemn  roar, 

As,  in  one  broad,  eternal  tide, 

The  rolling  waters  onward  glide. 

There  is  no  marble  monument, 

There  is  no  stone,  with  graven  lie, 

To  tell  of  love  and  virtue  blent 
In  one  almost  too  good  to  die. 

We  needed  no  such  useless  trace 

To  point  us  to  her  resting-place. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 

But,  midst  the  tears  of  April  showers, 
The  genius  of  the  wild  hath  strown 

His  germs  of  fruits,  his  fairest  flowers, 
And  cast  his  robe  of  vernal  bloom 
In  guardian  fondness  o'er  her  tomb. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone; 

Yet  yearly  is  her  grave-turf  dress'd, 
And  still  the  summer  vines  are  thrown, 

In  annual  wreaths,  across  her  breast, 
And  still  the  sighing  autumn  grieves, 
And  strews  the  hallowed  spot  with  leaves. 


*In  descending  the  Mississippi,  there  is  along  sweep 
ing  point  of  heavily  timbered  bctt  m  just  opposite  the 
second  Chickasaw  Bluff,  a  name  which  is  given  to  one  of 
those  peninsulas  of  high  land  which  jut  into  the  alluvium 
and  approach  the  river  from  time  to  time  on  its  eastern 
side.  In  this  bottom,  at  the  distance  of  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  paces  from  the  bank  of  the  river,  there  is  a  little 
grave,  in  which  are  deposited  the  remains  of  my  youngest 
sister.  She  was  born  on  our  passage  from  Arkansas  to 
St.  Charles,  in  the  fall  of  1819,  and  survived  only  three 
days.  At  that  time,  the  settlements  on  the  Mississippi 
were  so  thin  and  remote  that  there  were  often  intervals  of 
unbroken  forests,  extending  from  twenty  to  thirty  miles 


t  is  there  that  she  was  buried.  We  were  ascending  the 
river  in  a  small  batteau,  and  were  entirely  alone,  having 
>een  left  by  our  hands  a  few  miles  below.  Our  solitary 
ituation — the  circumstances  of  her  birth — the  place  of 
ler  burial — all  conspired  to  make  a  deep  and  lasting  im- 
>ression  on  my  mind.  Some  years  afterward  I  passed  the 
same  place,  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  on  my  way  up  the 
river,  in  a  steamboat.  Before  we  arrived  there,  I  had 
stolen  away  from  the  crowded  bustle  of  the  cabin  to  a 
more  secluded  place  on  the  top  of  the  boat,  that  I  might 
indulge  my  feelings  without  observation  or  restraint.  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  describe  them  now.  I  felt  a  desire 
to  consecrate  the  memory  of  this  "desert  born"  and 


along  its  shores.     It  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  these,  and   "  desert  buried,"  in  the  minds  of  some  whose  friendship 
in  a  night  of  storms,  that  this  little  infant  was  born  ;  and!  has  been,  and  ever  will  be,  dear  to  me. 


CHARLES  HAMMOND. 


WHEN  Charles  Hammond  was  born,  September,  1779,  his  father  resided  in  Balti 
more  county,  Maryland.  He  emigrated  to  Ohio  county,  Virginia,  in  1785.  As  soon 
as  Charles  was  large  enough  to  work  in  the  wilderness,  he  was  required  to  assist  in 
the  severe  labors  incident  to  pioneer  life.  He  delighted  rather  in  the  duties  of  the 
night,  than  in  those  of  the  day ;  for,  when  supper  was  over,  under  "his  father's  instruc 
tion,  he  either  read  or  studied,  or  listened  to  discussions  of  grave  political  questions, 
literary  recitations,  or  historical  descriptions.  His  father  could  recite  whole  plays  of 
Shakspeare,  and  had  committed  to  memory  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  and  other  poems. 

Early  in  life,  Charles  manifested  an  aptitude  for  writing.  He  exhibited  a  vein  of 
poetic  satire,  in  rude  verses  about  his  father's  neighbors,  which  secured  him  several  se 
vere  whippings.  Flogging  taught  him  caution,  but  did  not  dull  his  satire — caution  as 
to  the  manner  in  which  he  published  his  verses  ;  but,  in  reference  to  personalities,  ex 
asperating  because  felicitously  descriptive,  neither  flogging  in  early,  nor  threats  and 
bitter  abuse  in  after-life,  could  teach  him  discretion.  Because  he  loved  his  pen  and 
his  book,  and  though  a  steady,  was  a  reluctant  laborer  on  the  farm,  his  father  deter 
mined  that  he  should  be  a  lawyer.  Then  did  he,  for  the  first  time,  attend  an  institu 
tion  of  learning.  He  was  taught  English  and  Latin  grammar  for  a  few  months,  when 
he  entered  the  office  of  Phillip  Doddridge,  of  Wellsburg,  Virginia,  as  a  law  student. 
He  studied  not  only  law,  but  political  economy  and  the  philosophy  of  history.  He 
was  a  thorough  and  judicious  reader,  and  rapidly  gained  influence  among  those  with 
whom  he  became  acquainted. 

In  1801,  Mr.  Hammond  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  He  opened  an  office  in  "Wells- 
burg,  Virginia.  Practice  came  slowly.  He  had  leisure  for  political  reading,  and  he 
did  not  fail  to  improve  it  advantageously ;  nor  was  he  ashamed,  when  he  had  no  briefs 
to  prepare,  to  resort  to  other  labor  for  his  daily  bread.  He  posted  books,  and  settled 
accounts  for  merchants,  that  his  own  personal  accounts  might  be  liquidated  and  his 
wardrobe  renewed.  He  wrote  frequently  for  the  newspapers,  between  1801  and  1812, 
on  political  questions ;  but  on  account  of  the  audacity  of  his  spirit,  and  the  keenness 
of  his  satire,  did  not  always  readily  find  a  publisher  for  his  articles.  In  1813,  being 
then  a  resident  of  Belmont  county,  Ohio,  he  determined  to  start  a  paper  of  his  own. 
In  August,  1813,  the  first  number  of  the  Ohio  Federalist  appeared,  at  St.  Clairsville. 
It  was  a  super-royal  sheet,  published  by  John  Barry,  for  C.  Hammond.  Its  motto 
was  characteristic — a  quotation  from  Cowper,  in  these  words : 

"  In  freedom's  field  advancing  firm  his  foot, 
He  plants  it  on  the  line  that  Justice  draws, 
And  will  prevail,  or  perish  in  her  cause." 

In  1817  the  Federalist  was  discontinued.     In  1816  Mr.  Hammond  was  elected 

(  68) 


1820-30.]  CHARLES    HAMMOND.  69 

a  member  of  the  Ohio  House  of  Representatives,  for  Belmont  county ;  and  he  was 
re-elected  in  1817,  1818  and  1820.  In  1822,  having  been  unsuccessful  in  agricultural 
speculations,  by  which  he  had  hoped  to  make  a  fortune,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati,  for 
the  purpose  of  pursuing  his  profession  closely,  and,  as  he  said,  determined  to  let  news 
papers  and  politics  alone.  He  was  not  able  to  keep  that  determination. 

During  1823  and  1824  he  wrote  frequently  on  local  and  national  questions.  In 
1825  he  succeeded  Benjamin  F.  Powers,  as  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Gazette.  It  was 
then  published  semi-weekly,  and  its  motto  was — "  Measures,  not  Men."  It  became  a 
daily  in  June,  1827,  and  Mr.  Hammond  was  its  editor  till  1830,  without  a  salary. 
He  then  demanded  $1000  per  annum,  and  it  was  paid  him  for  a  few  years,  after 
which  he  received  one-third  of  the  profits,  until  April  third,  1840,  when,  in  the  sixty- 
first  year  of  his  age,  he  died. 

In  1823,  when  the  office  of  Reporter  for  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio  was  created, 
Mr.  Hammond  was  appointed  to  fill  it.  He  was  the  Reporter  until  1838,  when  he  re 
tired  from  the  bar.  The  first  nine  volumes  of  Ohio  Reports  were  by  him. 

As  a  legislator  and  as  an  editor  Charles  Hammond  was  an  earnest  advocate  of  a 
general  system  of  internal  improvement,  and  of  a  thorough  common  school  system. 
He  was  with  the  friends  of  education  when  the  first  general  law  for  the  encourage 
ment  of  schools  was  passed,  in  1821 ;  and  in  1836,  while  he  stood  alone  among  the 
political  editors  of  Cincinnati,  in  vigorous  rebuke  of  the  abolition  riots,  which,  by  at 
tempts  to  destroy  the  liberty  of  the  press,  disgraced  that  city,  he  was  foremost  among 
those  who  cheered  the  self-sacrificing  friends  of  education,  then  laboring  for  an  intel 
ligent  revision  of  the  school  law  of  1825. 

As  a  journalist,  Mr.  Hammond  described  himself  when,  in  answer  to  strictures 
upon  the  Gazette  in  1832,  he  defined  what  he  thought  an  editor  ought  to  be : 

The  legitimate  vocation  of  a  newspaper,  is  to  circulate  useful  intelligence,  and  promulgate  just 
and  impartial  views  of  public  affairs.  An  editor  should  be  one  in  whom  confidence  could  be  re 
posed,  for  soundness  of  judgment,  integrity  of  purpose,  and  independence  of  conduct.  He  should 
possess  varied  knowledge  and  large  experience  ;  and  he  should  feel  his  station  to  be  rather  that  of 
a  judge  dispensing  justice,  than  that  of  an  advocate  making  out  a  case.  He  should  be  zealous  of 
the  truth,  and  of  that  chiefly  ;  and  he  should  feel  that  to  deceive  purposely,  was  infamous  ;  to  de 
ceive  from  credulity  or  inattention,  highly  reprehensible.  He  should  distinctly  comprehend  that 
those  who  differ  from  him,  might  be  as  honest  as  himself,  and  as  well  informed  too  ;  and  he  should 
know  how  to  respect,  while  he  opposes  them. 

In  a  poem,  published  soon  after  Mr.  Hammond's  death,  William  D.  Gallagher  fitly 
characterized  him : 

Man  had  his  sympathies,  not  men  ! 

The  whole  he  loved  and  not  a  part ! 
And  to  the  whole  he  gave  his  pen, 
His  years,  his  heart. 

He  asked  no  leader  in  the  fight — 

No  "  times  and  seasons  "  sought  to  know — 

But  when  convinced  his  cause  was  right, 
He  struck  the  blow. 

"While  editor  of  the  Gazette  Mr.  Hammond  often  indulged  the  talent  for  satirical 


70 


CHARLES    HAMMOND. 


[1820-30. 


verses,  manifested  by  him  when  a  boy— but  upon  political  or  local  topics.  In  earlier 
life  he  wrote  several  poems  of  more  than  ordinary  merit,  and  he  was  always  prompt 
to  recognize  and  encourage  evidences  of  poetic  abilities  among  the  young  men  and 
women  of  the  West 


BOYHOOD. 

How  oft,  amid  the  sordid  strife 
Of  worldly  wisdom,  have  I  turned 

To  memory's  scenes  of  early  life, 

And  o'er  my  joyous  boyhood  mourned ; 

How  oft  have  wish'd,  mid  care  and  pain, 

To  be  that  buoyant  boy  again ! 

To  sleep  beneath  the  slanting  roof, 
And  hear  the  pattering  rain-drops  fall, 

Or  listen  to  the  lively  proof 

Of  vagrants  round  my  airy  hall ; 

Yet  rise  at  morn  with  wonted  glee, 

To  wade  the  brook,  or  climb  the  tree. 

To  join  the  sturdy  reaper's  train — 
What  time  the  lark  her  matin  sings, 

When,  mounting  with  impassioned  strain, 
She  bathes  in  light  her  glittering  wings, 

And,  poised  in  air,  is  scarcely  seen, 

So  high  amid  the  dazzling  sheen. 

'Twas  mine  to  trap  beside  the  stream, 
Or  angle  'neath  the  alder's  shade ; 

To  tend  the  plow,  or  drive  the  team, 
Or  seek  the  herd  in  distant  glade, 

Where  oft,  from  clustering  thickets,  shrill 

Rang  out  the  notes  of  whippowill. 

Those  trembling  notes — so  long,  so  wild — 
Were  music  to  my  boyish  ear ; 

Thought  backward  flies — and  as  a  child 
E'en  now  methinks  the  sound  I  hear : 

While  fancy  spreads  before  my  eye 

The  dewy  glade  and  moonlit  sky. 

The  lowing  herd,  now  wending  slow, 
Along  the  wood,  their  homeward  way ; 


The  winding  stream's  dark  glossy  flow, 

The  lilied  vale,  the  woodland  gay, 
Still  float  in  visions  bland  and  bright, 
As  on  that  balmy  summer's  night, — 

When  standing  on  the  distant  hill, 

With  boy -born  fancies  wand'ring  free, 

I  saw  no  specter'd  form  of  ill 
Rise  in  the  bright  futurity ; 

But  all,  instead,  was  joyous,  clear, 

Buoyant  with  hope,  untouched  with  fear. 

Oh,  those  were  boyhood's  cloudless  hours, 
And  sweet  on  wings  unsullied  flew ; 

But  pride  soon  dream'd  of  loftier  bowers, 
And  wealth  her  golden  luster  threw 

O'er  tempting  scenes,  as  false  as  fair, 

And  bade  my  spirit  seek  her  there. 

And  I  have  sought  her — not  in  vain ; 

I  might  have  piled  her  treasures  high, 
But  that  I  scorned  her  sordid  reign, 

And  turned  me  from  her  soulless  eye. 
I  could  not  delve  her  dirty  mine, 
And  would  not  worship  at  her  shrine. 

I  would  not  stoop  to  flatter  power 
For  any  vile  and  selfish  end ; 

I  would  not  change,  with  every  hour, 
My  faith,  my  feelings,  or  my  friend ; 

And,  least  of  all,  would  I  intrust 

My  hopes  to  the  accursed  dust. 

The  God  that  reared  the  woodland  heights, 
And  spread  the  flow'ry  valleys  wide, 

Awaked,  within  my  mind,  delights 

That  spurned  the  lures  of  human  pride, 

And  stern  forbade,  in  accents  known, 

To  worship  aught  beneath  his  throne. 


JAMES  HALL. 


JAMES  HALL  was  born  at  Philadelphia,  August  nineteen,  1793.  He  relinquished  law 
studies  to  join  the  army  of  1812,  and  distinguished  himself  at  the  battle  of  Lundy's 
Lane,  and  the  Siege  of  Fort  Erie.  At  the  close  of  the  war,  having  been  appointed 
an  officer  in  the  bomb  vessel,  which  accompanied  Decatur's  squadron  against  the 
Algerines,  he  enjoyed  a  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean.  His  vessel  returned  to  the 
United  States  in  1815,  and  Mr.  Hall  was  stationed  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island.  He 
soon  after  resigned,  and  resumed  the.  study  of  law  at  Pittsburgh. 

In  1820  Mr.  Hall  began  the  practice  of  law  at  Shawneetown,  Illinois.  He  then 
commenced  a  series  of  "  Letters  from  the  West,"  which  were  published  in  the  Port 
folio,  at  Philadelphia — edited  by  his  brother,  Harrison  Hall — and  were  collected  with 
out  his  knowledge  and  published  in  a  volume  in  England.  Soon  after  he  removed  to 
Shawneetown,  Mr.  Hall  edited  the  Illinois  Gazette.  He  was  appointed  Circuit  Attor 
ney  for  a  district  comprising  ten  counties,  and  served  four  years,  after  which  he  was 
chosen  Judge  for  the  same  circuit.  When  he  had  occupied  it  four  years  his  office  was 
abolished  by  a  change  in  the  judiciary  system  of  the  State.  He  was  afterward  for 
four  years  Treasurer  of  Illinois.  Meantime  he  continued  literary  labors,  editing  the 
Illinois  Intelligencer,  writing  letters  for  the  Portfolio,  and  poems  and  sketches  for 
Flint's  Western  Review  at  Cincinnati,  signing  himself  ORLANDO. 

In  1829  Mr.  Hall  compiled  "The  Western  Souvenir,  a  Christmas  and  New  Year's 
Gift"  It  was  the  first  annual  of  the  West.  N.  and  G.  Guilford,  at  Cincinnati,  were 
the  publishers.  The  Souvenir  was  a  neatly  printed  18mo  volume,  containing  324 
pages.  It  had  an  engraved  title-page,  and  was  embellished  with  steel  engravings  of 
the  Peasant  Girl,  views  of  Cincinnati,  Pittsburgh  and  Frankfort,  of  a  Shawanee  War 
rior,  and  of  an  Island  Scene  of  the  Ohio.  Its  poetical  contributors  were  James  Hall, 
Otway  Curry,  Nathan  Guilford,  Nathaniel  Wright,  S.  S.  Boyd,  Moses  Brooks,  John 
M.  Harney,  Harvey  D.  Little,  Caleb  Stark,  Ephraim  Robins,  John  B.  Dillon,  and 
Micah  P.  Flint.  The  writers  of  its  prose  were  James  Hall,  Nathan  Guilford,  Mor 
gan  Neville,  Timothy  Flint,  Louis  R.  Noble,  John  P.  Foote  and  Benjamin  Drake. 
It  is  now  a  rare  book,  and  is  valuable  as  a  creditable  illustration  of  early  art  and  litera 
ture  in  the  West. 

In  December,  1830,  Mr.  Hall  started  the  Illinois  Magazine,  at  Vandalia.  It  was  a 
monthly  octavo,  of  forty -eight  pages,  and  was  published  two  years.  The  editor  was  the 
chief  writer  for  its  pages.  James  H.  Perkins,  Salmon  P.  Ciiase,  Anna  Peyre  Dinnies 
(Moina),  and  Otway  Curry  wrote  occasionally.  Mr.  Hall  having  removed  to  Cincin 
nati,  the  Illinois  Magazine  was  discontinued,  and  The  Western  Monthly  there  estab 
lished.  It  was  the  same  size  of  its  predecessor,  but  had  the  assistance  of  a  number 
of  new  writers,  and  was  for  several  years  prosperous.  Mr.  Hall  conducted  it  till  1837, 
when  he  was  succeeded  by  James  Reese  Fry,  who  was  its  editor  until  it  was  discon- 

(71) 


72 


JAMES    HALL. 


[1820-30. 


tinued  in  1838.  James  H.  Perkins,  William  D.  Gallagher,  Charles  A.Jones,  Otway 
Curry,  Morgan  Neville,  Hannah  F.  Gould,  and  John  H.  James  were  frequent  contrib 
utors  to  the  Monthly. 

In  1836  Mr.  Hall  was  elected  Cashier  of  the  Commercial  Bank  of  Cincinnati.  In 
1853  he  was  chosen  President  of  the  same  institution,  a  position  he  yet  holds.  His 
literary  labors  have  been  confined  for  ten  or  twelve  years  past  to  a  revision  of  his 
works,  and  to  occasional  reviews  of  books  for  the  Cincinnati  Gazette  and  Cincinnati 
Times. 

Mr.  Hall's  works  are  comprised  in  twelve  volumes  and  one  pamphlet.     We  subjoin 

a  list: 

Legends  of  the  West.    Philadelphia,  1832,  12mo  ;  2d  edition,  1833. 

The  Soldier's  Bride,  and  other  Tales,  1832. 

The  Harpe's  Head,  a  Legend  of  Kentucky,  1833. 

Sketches  of  the  West.    Philadelphia,  1835.  2  vols.,  12mo. 

Tales  of  the  Border.    Philadelphia,  1835,  12mo. 

Statistics  of  the  West  at  the  close  of  1836.    Cincinnati,  1836,  12mo. 

Notes  on  the  Western  States.    Philadelphia,  1838,  12mo  ;  1839,  Cr.  8vo. 

Life  of  General  William  Henry  Harrison.     1836,  18mo. 

History  of  the  Indian  Tribes,  by  Thomas  L.  Kenney  and  James  Hall.     1838- '44,  3  vols.  Folio. 

The  Wilderness  and  the  War  Path.    New  York,  1845,  12mo. 

Anniversary  Address  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association  of  Cincinnati,  April,  1846. 

Life  of  Thomas  Posey,  Major-General  and  Governor  of  Indiana  (Sparks's  American  Biography, 

2d  series,  IX,  359,  403). 
Romance  of  Western  History.    Cincinnati,  1857. 


THE  INDIAN  MAID'S  DEATH  SONG. 

THE  valiant  Dakota  has  gone  to  the  chase, 
The  pride  of  my  heart,  and  the  hope  of  his 

race; 

His  arrows  are  sharp,  and  his  eye  it  is  true, 
And  swift  is  the  march  of  his  birchen  canoe ; 
But  suns  shall  vanish,  and  seasons  shall 

wane, 
Ere  the  hunter  shall  clasp  his  WINONA 

again ! 

Away,  you  false  hearted,  who  smile  to  de 
stroy, 

Whose  hearts  plan  deceit,  while  your  lips 
utter  joy ; 

Winona  is  true  to  the  vow  she  has  made, 

And  none  but  the  hunter  shall  win  the 
dark  maid. 


I  sing  my  death  dirge;  for  the  grave  I 

prepare ; 
And  soon  shall  my  true  lover  follow  me 

there. 

His  heart  is  so  true,  that  in  death  he  shall 

not 
Forget  the  sad  scene  of  this  blood-sprinkled 

spot; 
But  swift  as  the  foot  of  the  light-bounding 

doe, 
He'll  fly  through  the  regions  of  darkness 

below, 

To  join  his  Winona  in  mansions  of  truth, 
Where  love  blooms  eternal,  with  beauty 

and  youth. 

Stern  sire,  and  false-hearted  kinsmen,  adieu ! 
I  sing  my  death  song,  and  my  courage  is 
true ; 


JAMES   HALL. 


73 


'Tis  painful  to  die — but  the  pride  of  my  race 

Forbids  me  to  pause  betwixt  pain  and  dis 
grace  ; 

The  rocks  they  are  sharp,  and  the  preci 
pice  high — 

See,  see!  how  a  maiden  can  teach  ye  to  die ! 


WEDDED  LOVE'S  FIRST  HOME. 

'TWAS  far  beyond  yon  mountains,  dear, 
we  plighted  vows  of  love ; 

The  ocean  wave  was  at  our  feet,  the  au 
tumn  sky  above  ; 

The  pebbly  shore  was  covered  o'er  with 
many  a  varied  shell, 

And  on  the  billow's  curling  spray  the  sun 
beams  glittering  fell. 

The  storm  has  vexed  that  billow  oft,  and 
oft  that  sun  has  set, 

But  plighted  love  remains  with  us,  in 
peace  and  luster  yet. 

I  wiled  thee  to  a  lonely  haunt,  that  bash 
ful  love  might  speak, 

"Where  none  could  hear  what  love  revealed, 
or  see  the  crimson  cheek ; 

The  shore  was  all  deserted,  and  we  wan 
dered  there  alone, 

And  not  a  human  step  impressed  the  sand- 
beach  but  our  own. 

Thy  footsteps  all  have  vanished  from  the 
billow-beaten  strand — 

The  vows  we  breathed  remain  with  us — 
they  were  not  traced  in  sand. 

Far,  far,  we  left  the  sea-girt  shore,  endeared 

by  childhood's  dream, 
To  seek  the  humble  cot  that  smiled  by  fair 

Ohio's  stream ; 
In  vain  the  mountain  cliff  opposed,  the 

mountain  torrent  roared, 
For  love  unfurled  her  silken  wing,  and  o'er 

each  barrier  soared ; 


And  many  a  wide  domain  we  passed,  and 

many  an  ample  dome, 
But   none  so  blessed,  so  dear  to  us,  as 

wedded  love's  first  home. 

Beyond  those  mountains  now  are  all  that 

e'er  we  loved  or  knew, 
The  long  remembered  many,  and  the  dearly 

cherished  few ; 
The  home  of  her  we  value,  and  the  grave 

of  him  we  mourn, 
Are  there; — and  there  is  all  the  past  to 

which  the  heart  can  turn  ; — 
But  dearer  scenes  surround  us  here,  and 

lovelier  joys  we  trace, 
For  here  is  wedded  love's  first  home— its 

hallowed  resting  place. 


CAN  YEARS  OF  SUFFERING? 

CAN  years  of  suffering  be  repaid, 

By  after-years  of  bliss  ? 
When  youth  has  fled,  and  health  decayed, 

Can  man  taste  happiness  ? 
When  love's  bright  visions  are  no  more, 

Nor  high  ambition's  dream, 
Has  heaven  no  kindred  joy  in  store, 

To  gild  life's  parting  beam  ? 

Oh,  bright  is  youth's  propitious  hour, 

And  manhood's  joyous  prime/ 
When  pleasure's  sun,  and  beauty's  flower, 

Adorn  the  march  of  time. 
But  age  has  riper,  richer  joy, 

When  hearts  prepared  for  heaven, 
Thrice  tried,  and  pure  of  all  alloy, 

Rejoice  in  sins  forgiven. 

When  long-tried  love  still  twines  her  wreath 

Around  the  brow  of  age ; 
And  virtue,  the  stern  arm  of  death, 

Disarms  of  all  its  rage ; 
When  friends,  long  cherished,  still  are  true, 

When  virtuous  offspring  bloom  ; 
Then  man's  enjoyment  purest  flows, 

Though  ripening  for  the  tomb. 


WILLIAM   R.  SCHENCK. 


WILLIAM  ROGERS  SCHENCK  was  born  at  Cincinnati,  then  in  the  North-Western 
Territory,  October  twentieth,  1799.  He  was  the  eldest  child  of  William  C.  Schenck 
and  Elizabeth  R.  Schenck.  His  father  was  associated  with  John  Cleves  Syrnmes  in 
the  early  settlement  and  surveys  of  the  Miami  Valley,  and  resided,  after  1800,  at 
Franklin,  on  the  Great  Miami  river — a  village  which  he  himself  founded — and  con 
tinued  to  be  a  leading,  influential,  and  highly  respected  citizen  of  southern  Ohio,  until 
his  death,  which  occurred  at  Columbus,  January  twelfth,  1821,  while  in  attendance 
in  the  Legislature  of  the  State  as  a  Representative  from  Warren  county. 

William  Rogers  Schenck  had  no  advantages  of  education  except  such  as  were 
afforded  by  the  common  English  country  schools  of  that  early  day  in  Ohio.  He  was 
brought  up  a  merchant,  and  pursued  that  business  at  Franklin  until  near  the  close  of 
his  life.  He  was  married  at  Cincinnati,  September  fourth,  1822,  to  Phebe  W. 
Reeder.  In  December,  1832,  on  his  return  with  a  small  party  of  men  from  an  expe 
dition  to  Tao.s,  in  New  Mexico,  he  perished  on  the  prairies,  after  having  been  wounded 
in  an  encounter  with  the  Carnanche  Indians.  His  sad  and  untimely  fate  was  mourned 
and  commemorated  in  a  fitting  elegy  by  his  companion,  Albert  S.  Pike,  the  poet  of 
Arkansas,  who  in  long  years  of  intimacy  had  well  learned  to  know  and  appreciate  the 
generous,  noble,  and  genial  qualities  and  brilliant  talents  of  his  unfortunate  friend. 

With  Mr.  Schenck,  literary  exercises  were  never  more  than  an  occasional  recrea 
tion.  He  wrote  many  short  poems.  The  best  were  contributed  to  the  Cincinnati 
Literary  Gazette,  in  the  years  1824  and  1825.  They  were  never  published  in  any 
collected  form. 


SUICIDE. 

SUICIDE  ! — In  thought  as  fearful  as  in 
purpose  base, — 

The  hero's  bane,  the  coward's  antidote. 

The  first  bears  up  against  the  ills  of  fate, 

'Gainst  Fortune's  frowns,  a  friend's  de 
pravity, 

A  mistress  false,  a  country's  base  ingrati 
tude, 

And  all  the  miseries  that  man  inherits, 


Yet  rises  still  superior  to  them  all ; 

Thy  meaner  refuge  scorns,  and  dares  to 
live ; 

Nay,  glories  in  his  stern  philosophy. 

His  hope  of  heaven,  is  his  prop  on  earth ; 

He  feels  his  spirit  rise  as  ills  assail  him ; 

He  nobly  lives — or  dies  to  live  forever. 

The  other,  like  the  poor  despairing  mari 
ner, 

Buffets  awhile  the  angry  billows'  roar ; 

But  when  a  wave,  more  boisterous  than  the 
rest, 


(74) 


1820-30.] 


WILLIAM    R.    SCHENCK. 


75 


Rolls  on  his  head,  his  firmness  sinks  be 
neath  it ; 

And,  losing  confidence,  he  loseth  strength, 
Abandons  hope,  and  sinks  into  eternity. 
Such  is  the  fear  a  suicide  betrays — 
Is    madly   brave,   but    braving   heaven's 
a  coward. 


THE  MUSQUITOES. 

AVAUNT,  ye  crew  of  butch'ring  devils, 
Ye  worst  of  all  the  summer's  evils ; 
Leave,  leave  your  fell,  blood-thirsty  revels, 
And  me  in  peace. 

Or  cease  ye,  foul,  tormenting  crew, 
Your  nightly  song,  your  cursed  tattoo ; 
Worse  than  the  Shawnee's  dread  halloo, 
Your  war-song  cease.    * 

Drive  home  your  blood-ensanguined  stings, 
Bathe  in  the  red  tide's  crimson  springs ; 
But  curse  the  noise  your  banquet  brings, 
Let  that  subside. 


I  hold  but  lightly  all  your  stinging, 
Though  blood  from  every  pore  were  spring 
ing; 

I'd  murmur  not,  but  oh,  your  singing 
I  can't  abide. 

Then  cease,  ere  I'm  to  madness  driven ; 
I've  blood  enough  to  spare,  thank  heaven ! 
And  what  I  have's  as  freely  given, 
As  quaffed  by  you. 

"  Music  hath  charms  "  for  many  a  mind, 
Than  mine  more  music'ly  inclined, 
Then  sing  for  them,  pray  be  so  kind, 
And  bleed  me — do! 


Do  this — or  by  my  many  wrongs, 

I'll  clog  your  boist'rous,  brawling  lungs, 

And  stop  the  concert,  of  your  tongues 

With  sulph'rous  clouds. 


INDIAN  DEATH  SONG. 

FOEMEN  of  my  nation's  race, 
Warriors  oft  in  battle  tried, 
Oft  I've  met  you  face  to  face, 
Oft  in  blood  my  hatchet  dyed. 
But  now  my  race  is  run : 
No  more  I  hurl  the  bolt  of  war ; 
No  more  I  shine  my  nation's  star, 
To  guide  their  vengeance  from  afar ; 

For  now  will  Alvin's  son 
Soar  to  the  land  beyond  the  sky. 
I've  bravely  lived,  I'll  bravely  die. 

Warriors,  'midst  the  thick'ning  fight, 
Beneath  my  arm  brave  Osci  died ; 
The  hero  sunk  beneath  my  might, 
Your  nation's  boast,  your  nation's  pride, 
I  glory  in  the  deed. 

And  where  your  choicest  kinsmen  fought, 
My  choicest  vengeance  there  was  sought, 
Your  widest  ruin  there  was  wrought, 

Your  bravest  sons  did  bleed. 
The  shades  of  those  heroic  dead 
Invoke  your  vengeance  on  my  head. 

Then  higher  build  my  funeral  throne, 
Then  higher  raise  the  raging  flame, 
And  not  one  murmur,  not  one  groan 
Shall  sully  Orvan's  deathless  fame. 
Think  how  once  burst  my  warrior  flood ; 
Remember  how  before  me  sank 
Your  bravest  friends,  your  failing  ranks ; 
Remember  how  my  hatchet  drank 
Your  warmest,  choicest  blood, 
I  scorn  your  power;  I  scorn  your  wrath ; 
I  curse  you  with  my  latest  breath. 


WILLIAM    R.   SCHENCK 


[1820-30. 


FRIENDSHIP,  LOVE  AND  BEAUTY. 

SINCE  first  I  have  reasoned  and  felt  as  a  man, 
I  have  loved  all  that's  lovely,  I  love  all  I  can ; 
I've  been  jilted  and  smiled  on,  by  turns,  as 

a  lover, 
And  yet  my  wild  race  of  mad  folly's  not 

over: 
From  pleasure  to  pleasure  still  heedless 

I  rove, 
For,  oh!  what  is  life  without  Beauty 

and  Love  ? 

Misanthropes,  of  envy  and  hatred  the  slaves, 
Preach  that  women  are  fickle,  and  men  are 

all  knaves ; 
But  while  I've  a  friend  that  will  bravely 

and  nobly 
Stand  firm  to  my  cause,  and  a  girl  that  is 

lovely, 
From  pleasure  to  pleasure  still  heedless 

I'll  rove, 
For,  oh !  what  is  life  without  Friendship 

and  Love  ? 

Though  Eliza's  light  vows  were  as  fickle 

as  air, 
And  when  absent  from  Anna,  my  love  was 

forgot, 
Should  the  arts  or  the  falsehoods  of  those 

perjured  fair 
The  whole  female  page  with  inconstancy 

blot? 
No  !  perish  the  thought  that  would  law 

less  thus  rove, 
For,  oh !  what  is  life  without  Beauty  an 

Love? 

This  life's  but  a  shadow  on  Time's  ruggec 

face, 
And  those  hours  how  short  that  with  plea 

sure  we  trace ; 
Then  youth  is  the  season  for  love  and  de 

light, 
Ere  old  age  gathers  o'er  us  the  dark  clou 

of  night; 


So  while  youth  lasts,  with  beauty  and 

friendship  I'll  rove, 
For,  oh !  what  is  life  without  Friendship 

and  Love? 


WOMAN. 

YES,  rail  against  woman — her  arts  and  her 

wiles, 

Her  treachery,  falsehood,  and  snares ; 
Then   find   if  you   can,  a   balm  like  her 

smiles, 

A  charm  like  her  love  that  the  bosom  be 
guiles, 
Of  its  deepest  and  deadliest  cares. 

What   were   man — lordly   man,  unbless'd 

and  alone, 

Condemned  o'er  life's  desert  to  rove ; 
What  would  urge  him  to  glory,  to  honor, 

renown, 
If  beauty's  bright  glance  on  his  pathway 

ne'er  shone, 
Nor  bless'd  by  her  smiles  and  her  love. 

Ah  yes,  lovely  sex !  'tis  to  you  that  we 

owe 

All  the  blessings  this  world  can  impart, 
All  the  pleasures  that  love  and  content 
ment  bestow, 
All  that  gives  to  existence  a  charm  here 

below, 
All  the  joys  that  are  dear  to  the  heart. 

And  perish  the  wretch,  unmanly  and  base, 
Undistinguished  in  life,  and  unhonored 

in  death 
(May  his  name  be  forever  deep  marked 

with  disgrace, 
Till  fame  shall  with  horror  the  characters 

trace), 

Who  would  tarnish  thy  name  with  his 
slanderous  breath. 


SARAH  LOUISA  P.  SMITH. 


SARAH  LOUISA  P.  HICKMAN  was  born  at  Detroit,  on  the  thirtieth  of  June,  1811. 
Her  grandfather,  Major-General  Hull,  was  then  Governor  of  Michigan.  While  a 
mere  child  Miss  Hickman  wrote  verses  which  were  much  admired.  Having  accom 
panied  her  mother  to  the  home  of  her  family  in  Newton,  Massachusetts,  she  was 
liherally  educated.  In  her  eighteenth  year  she  was  married  to  Samuel  Jenks  Smith,  then 
editor  of  a  periodical  in  Providence.  Rhode  Island.  Mr.  Smith  published  his  wife's 
poems,  in  a  duodecimo  volume  of  250  pages,  the  same  year  of  their  marriage.  In 
1829  Mr.  Smith  moved  to  Cincinnati.  There  Mrs.  Smith  wrote  poems  for  the  Cin 
cinnati  Gazette,  of  peculiar  gracefulness,  upon  a  variety  of  themes ;  but  her  health 
rapidly  declined,  and  she  died,  on  a  visit  to  New  York  City,  February  twelfth,  1832, 
in  the  twenty -first  year  of  her  age. 

Her  husband  was  afterward  for  several  years  connected  with  the  New  York  Press. 
He  died  while  on  a  voyage  to  Europe,  in  1842. 


WHITE  ROSES. 

THEY  were  gathered  for  a  bridal : 

I  knew  it  by  their  hue — 
Fair  as  the  summer  moonlight 

Upon  the  sleeping  dew. 
From  their  fair  and  fairy  sisters 

They  were  borne,  without  a  sigh, 
For  one  remembered  evening, 

To  blossom  and  to  die. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

And  fastened  in  a  wreath  ; 
But  purer  were  the  roses 

Than  the  heart  that  lay  beneath ; 
Yet  the  beaming  eye  was  lovely, 

And  the  coral  lip  was  fair, 
And  the  gazer  looked  and  asked  not 

For  the  secret  hidden  there. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 
Where  a  thousand  torches  glistened, 

When  the  holy  words  were  spoken, 
And  the  false  and  faithless  listened, 


And  answered  to  the  vow, 

Which  another  heart  had  taken : 

Yet  he  was  present  then — 
The  once  loved,  the  forsaken ! 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

And  now,  now  they  are  dying, 
And  young  Love  at  the  altar 

Of  broken  faith  is  sighing. 
Their  summer  life  was  stainless, 

And  not  like  hers  who  wore  them 
They  are  faded,  and  the  farewell 

Of  beauty  lingers  o'er  them ! 


THE  OHIO. 

THE  moonlight  sleeps  upon  thy  shores, 

Fair  river  of  the  West ! 
And  the  soft  sound  of  dipping  oars 

Just  breaks  thy  evening  rest 


(77) 


7S 


SARAH   LOUISA   P.    SMI'JH. 


[1820-30. 


Full  many  a  bark  its  silver  path 

Is  tracing  o'er  thy  tide  ; 
And  list,  the  sound  of  song  and  laugh 

Floats  onward,  where  they  glide. 
They're  from  light  hearts,  those  sounds 
so  gay, 

Whose  home  and  hopes  are  here, 
But  one,  whose  home  is  far  away, 

Their  music  fails  to  cheer. 

The  woods  of  Indiana  frown 

Along  the  distant  shore, 
And  send  their  deep,  black  shadows  down 

Upon  the  glassy  floor ; 
Many  a  tree  is  blooming  there — 

Wild-flowers  o'erspread  the  ground, 
And  thousand  vines  of  foliage  rare 

The  trunks  are  wreatlvd  around. 
But  though  the  summer  robe  is  gay 

On  every  hill  and  tree, 
The  gray  woods  rising  far  away, 

Are  fairer  still  to  me. 

Yon  cloudless  moon  to-night  looks  down 

Upon  no  lovelier  sight, 
Than  the  river  winding  proudly  on — 

Yet  beautiful,  in  might ; 
Onward  still  to  the  mighty  West, 

Where  the  prairie  wastes  unfold, 
Where  the  Indian  chieftan  went  to  rest 

As  his  last  war-signal  rolled. 
No — never  arched  the  blue  skies  o'er 

A  wave  more  fair  and  free — 
But  the  stream  around  my  mother's  door 

Is  dearer  far  to  me. 


TO  THE  ONCE  LOVED. 
AND  tliou  canst  wear  a  brow  of  mirth, 

Tin   iiavr-t  -till  at  pleasure's  shrine, 
And  tliou  cnn'st  smile  on  all  the  earth, 

And  make  its  light  and  music  thine ! 
The  wind*  that  sweep  the  clear  blue  sea, 

Bring  perfumes  from  the  glorious  land, 
Win •!•«•  thou  art  still  the  gay,  the  free, 

Where  all  thy  vows  were  traced  on  sand. 


The  stars  are  burning  brightly  yet 

Above  the  wood,  whose  waving  boughs 

Were  harps,  wherein  the  night  winds  met 
To  blend  their  music  with  those  vows. 

Thou  hast  a  heart  which  yet  will  wake, 

When  all  this  splendid  dream  is  o'er, 
Which  yet  will  sadly  sigh  to  make 

Its  home  on  the  deserted  shore. 
But  the  light  bark  that's  wandered  fast 

On  ocean's  path,  when  skies  were  fair, 
In  vain  would  turn  when  clouds  o'ercast — 

Alone  it  meets  the  tempest  there. 
And  for  a  thing  so  young,  so  frail, 

And  yet  so  beautiful  as  thou, 
'Twould  need  but  one  chill  autumn  gale 

To  waste  the  wild  flowers  on  thy  brow. 

I  met  thee  once  within  the  hall, 

The  festal  hall,  where  music  flows, 
And  crowds  were  thronging  at  the  call, 

As  winds  wait  on  a  summer  rose. 
Still  didst  thou  seem  the  soul  of  all 

That's  holiest,  in  thought,  on  earth, 
Like  dreams  we  have  when  moonbeams 
fall 

Through  summer  leaves  upon  the  earth. 
E'en  then,  in  all  thy  beauty's  power, 

I  watch'd  thy  brilliant  bloom  depart ; 
Thy  thoughts  were  on  a  vanish'd  hour — 

Thine  eye  on  him  who  read  thy  heart ! 

I  would  not  have  that  fetter'd  heart, 

For  all  thy  beauty  in  its  spring ! 
I  would  not  have  thy  soul  of  art 

To  be,  like  thee,  a  follow'd  thing ! 
Yet  do  I  grieve  to  think  that  thou — 

So  deeply  dear  in  moments  fled, 
Hast  twin'd  a  wreath  around  thy  brow, 

Whose    weight    will    soon   be   that   of 

lead ; 
And,  like  the  coral  chaplet  bound 

Upon  the  Christian  maiden's  brow, 
Shedding  its  poisonous  breath  around, 

Bid  all  that's  fair  beneath  it  bow. 


ELIJAH   P.   LOVEJOY. 


ELIJAH  PARISH  LOVEJOY  was  born  at  Albion,  Maine,  November  ninth,  1802. 
His  father,  Daniel  Lovejoy,  was  a  Presbyterian  preacher.  Elijah  was  given  a  liberal 
education.  He  graduated  at  Waterville  College  in  September,  1826,  and  spoke  a 
poem  on  "  The  Inspiration  of  the  Muse." 

In  1827  Mr.  Lovejoy  determined  to  cast  his  lot  for  life  in  the  great  West.  He  went 
to  St.  Louis  and  established  a  school.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  newspa 
pers,  and  soon  became  known  as  a  vigorous  writer.  A  poem,  "  My  Mother,"  published 
in  the  St.  Louis  Republican  in  1828,  was  much  admired.  In  1829  Mr.  Lovejoy  be 
came  the  editor  of  a  political  paper.  He  advocated  the  claims  of  Henry  Clay  as  a 
candidate  for  President  of  the  United  States,  and  was  making  a  favorable  impression, 
as  an  earnest  and  skillful  political  writer,  when,  in  1832,  a  change  in  his  religious  views 
caused  him  to  abandon  political  interests.  Having  determined  to  become  a  preacher, 
he  went  to  Princeton,  New  Jersey,  and  studied  theology.  He  was  licensed  to  preach 
at  Philadelphia,  in  the  summer  of  1833,  and  before  winter  of  the  same  year,  had 
started  a  religious  paper  at  St.  Louis,  which  he  called  The  Observer.  He  was  a  vigor 
ous  thinker  and  a  plain-spoken  writer,  and  having  repeatedly  expressed  himself  against 
what  he  perceived  to  be  the  wrongs  of  slavery,  was  compelled,  by  threats  of  mob  vio 
lence,  to  remove  his  paper,  in  July,  1836,  to  Alton,  Illinois.  The  enmity  which  had 
been  excited  at  St.  Louis  pursued  him,  and  in  less  than  a  year  mobs  broke  three 
presses.  He  procured  a  fourth  one,  and  was  preparing  to  set  it  up  in  his  office,  when 
a  violent  attack,  by  an  excited  mob,  was  made  upon  the  building.  Shots  were  ex 
changed  between  the  mob  and  a  few  friends  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  who  were 
determined  to  defend  it.  "When,  as  it  was  supposed,  the  mob  had  retired,  Mr.  Lovejoy 
went  to  the  door  to  reconnoiter.  He  was  fired  upon  and  received  five  balls — three 
were  in  his  breast,  and  caused  his  death  in  a  few  minutes.  The  building  was  then  en 
tered  and  the  press  broken  to  pieces. 

Mr.  Lovejoy  left  a  wife — Celia  Ann  French,  to  whom  he  was  married  at  St.  Charles, 
Missouri,  in  1835 — and  one  son. 

These  facts  are  obtained  from  a  memoir  prepared  by  his  brothers,  Joseph  C.  and 
Owen  Lovejoy  ;  published  by  John  S.  Taylor,  at  New  York,  in  1838.  John  Quincy 
Adams  wrote  an  introduction  for  it,  in  which  he  dwelt  with  spirit  upon  the  fact  that 
the  incidents  of  Mr.  Lovejoy's  death  had  inspired  an  interest  in  his  life  and  character 
which  would  not  be  temporary. 

Owen  Lovejoy  is  now  a  member  of  Congress  from  Illinois.  He  is  distinguished  as 
a  popular  orator. 

(79) 


ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY. 


[1830-40 


MY  MOTHER. 

THERE  is  a  fire  that  burns  on  earth, 

A  pure  and  holy  flame ; 
It  came  to  men  from  heavenly  birth, 

And  still  it  is  the  same, 
As  when  it  burned  the  chords  along 
That  bore  the  first-born  seraph's  song ; 
Sweet  as  the  hymn  of  gratitude 
That  swelled   to  heaven   when   'all   was 

good :' 

No  passion  in  the  choirs  above 
Is  purer  than  a  mother's  love ! 

My  mother !  how  that  name  endears, 
Through  Memory's  griefs,  and   Sorrow's 

tears ! 
I  see  thee  now,  as  I  have  seen, 

With  thy  young  boy  beside  thee — 
Thou  didst  not  know,  nor  couldst  thou  deem 

The  ills  that  would  betide  me ; 
For  sorrow  then  had  dimmed  that  eye, 
Which  beamed  with  only  ecstacy ! 

Ah !  life  was  then  a  joyous  thing, 
And  time  bore  pleasure  on  its  wing. 
How  buoyant  did  the  minutes  move, 
For  I  was  hope  and  thou  wert  love. 
Beneath  thy  smiles  I  closed  the  day, 
And  met  them  at  the  morning  ray ; 
My  infant  heart  was  full  of  glee, 
And  every  chord  struck  harmony. 
And  often  as  there  would  betide 

Some  little  griefs  my  heart  to  gall, 
I  bore  them  to  my  mother's  side, 

And  one  kind  kiss  dispelled  them  all. 

And  I  have  knelt  with  thee — when  none 

Were  near  but  thou  and  I — 
In  trembling  awe  before  the  throne 

Of  mercy  in  the  sky ; 
And  when  thy  melted  heart  was  poured 
Before  the  Being  thou  adored, 
How  holy  was  that  prayer  of  thine, 
Fit  offering  for  a  heavenly  shrine — 


Not  for  thyself  a  wish — not  one — 
But  smile  upon,  Lord,  bless  my  son ! 
And  I  have  risen  and  gone  my  way, 

And  seemed  to  have  forgot; 
Yet  oft  my  wandering  thoughts  would  stray 

Back  to  that  hallowed  spot; 
While  feelings  new  and  undefined 
Would  crowd  upon  my  laboring  mind. 

0  days  of  innocence  and  peace ! 

O  ill  exchanged  for  manhood's  years ! 
When  mirth  that  sprang   from   youthful 
bliss, 

Is  drowned  beneath  misfortune's  tears. 
My  heart  has  since  been  sadly  worn, 
While  wave  on  wave  has  o'er  it  borne ; 
And  feelings  once  all  fresh  and  green, 
Are  now  as  though  they  ne'er  had  been. 
And  Hope,  that  bright  and  buoyant  thing, 
E'en  hope  has  lent  despair  its  wing, 
And  sits  despoiled  within  my  breast, 
A  timid,  torturing,  trembling  guest ! 

1  dare  not  look  upon  the  past, 
I  care  not  for  the  future  cast. 
Yet  o'er  this  darkness  of  the  soul 

There  comes  one  cheering  beam, 
Pure,  warm,  and  bright,  of  rapture  full 

As  angel  visits  seem — 
A  mother's  love,  a  mother's  care. 
My  aching  heart,  there's  comfort  there ! 

It  is  as  if  a  lovely  rose 
Should  bloom  amid  the  icy  waste ; 

For  while  the  heart's  life-streams  are 

froze, 
Its  fragrance  o'er  it  still  is  cast. 

Weary  and  worn,  my  bed  I've  shared 

With  sickness  and  with  pain, 
Nor  one,  of  all  who  saw  me,  cared 

If  e'er  I  rose  again. 
Heedless  and  quick,  they  passed  along, 
With  noisy  mirth  and  ribald  song, 
And  not  a  hand  outstretched  to  give 
A  cordial  that  should  bid  me  live. 
And  woman,  too,  that  nurse  of  ease, 
Made  up  of  love  and  sympathies, 


1830-40.] 


ELIJAH    P.   LOVE  JOY. 


81 


Ay,  woman,  she — she  passed  me  by, 
With  cold,  averted,  careless  eye; 
Nor  deigned  to  ask,  nor  seemed  to  care 
If  death  and  I  were  struggling  there ! 
Ah  !  then  I've  thought,  and  felt  it,  too, — 
My  mother  is  not  such  as  you  ! 
How  would  she  sit  beside  my  bed, 
And  pillow  up  my  aching  head, 
And  then,  in  accents  true  as  mild, 
"  Would  I  were  suff 'ring  for  thee,  child  ! " 
And  try  to  soothe  my  griefs  away, 
And  look  e'en  more  than  she  could  say; 
And  press  her  cheek  to  mine,  nor  fear, 
Though  plague  or  fever  wantoned  there ; 
And  watch  through  weary  nights  and  lone, 
Nor  deem  fatigue  could  be  her  own. 
And  if,  perchance,  I  slept,  the  last 
I  saw,  her  eyes  were  on  me  cast ; 
And  when  I  woke,  'twould  be  to  meet 
The  same  kind,  anxious  glance,  so  sweet, 
And  so  endearing,  that  it  seemed 
As  from  a  seraph's  eye  it  beamed. 

My  mother !  I  am  far  away 

From  home,  and  love,  and  thee  ; 
And  stranger  hands  may  heap  the  clay 

That  soon  may  cover  me  ; 
Yet  we  shall  meet — perhaps  not  here, 
But  in  yon  shining  azure  sphere; 
And  if  there's  aught  assures  me  more, 

Ere  yet  my  spirit  fly, 
That  heaven  has  mercy  still  in  store, 

For  such  a  wretch  as  I, 
'Tis  that  a  heart  so  good  as  thine, 
Must  bleed — must  burst,  along  with  mine. 

And  life  is  short,  at  best,  and  time 
Must  soon  prepare  the  tomb  ; 

And  there  is  sure  a  happier  clime, 
Beyond  this  world  of  gloom. 

And  should  it  be  my  happy  lot, 
After  a  life  of  care  and  pain, 
In  sadness  spent,  or  spent  in  vain — 

To  go  where  sighs  and  sin  is  not, 

'Twill  make  the  half  my  heaven  to  be, 
My  mother,  evermore  with  thee ! 


THE  WANDERER.* 

THE  sun  was  set,  and  that  dim  twilight 

hour, 
Which  shrouds  in  gloom  whate'er  it  looks 

upon, 

Was  o'er  the  world ;  stern  desolation  lay 
In  her  own  ruins  ;  every  mark  was  gone, 
Save    one    tall,    beetling    monumental 
stone. 

Amid  a  sandy  waste,  it  reared  its  head, 
All  scathed  and  blackened  by  the  light 
ning's  shock, 
That  many  a  scar  and  many  a  seam  had 

made, 

E'en  to  its  base ;  and  there,  with  thun 
dering  stroke, 

Erie's  wild  waves  in  ceaseless  clamors 
broke. 

And  on  its  rifted  top  the  wanderer  stood, 
And  bared  his  head  beneath  the  cold 

night  air, 

And  wistfully  he  gazed  upon  the  flood. 
It  were  a  boon  to  him  (so  thought  he 

there) 
Beneath  that  tide  to  rest  from  every  care. 

And  might  it  be,  and  not  his  own  rash  hand 
Have  done  the  deed  (for  yet  he  dared 

not  brave, 

All  reckless  as  he  was,  the  high  command, 
Do  thou  thyself  no  harm),  adown  the 

wave, 

And  in  the  tall  lake-grass  that  night,  had 
been  his  grave. 

Oh !  you  may  tell  of  that  philosophy, 
Which  steels  the  heart  'gainst  every  bitter 

woe : 

Tis  not  in  nature,  and  it  cannot  be ; 
You  cannot  rend  young  hearts,  and  not 

a  throe 
Of  agony,  tell  how  they  feel  the  blow. 


*  Written  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Erie. 


ELIJAH   P.    LOVEJOY. 


[1830-40. 


He  was  a  lone  and  solitary  one, 

With  none  to  love,  and  pity  he  disdained : 
His  hopes  were  wrecked,  and  all  his  joys 

were  gone ; 
But  his  dark  eye  blanched  not ;  his  pride 

remained ; 

And  if  he  deeply  felt,  to  none  had  he 
complained. 

Of  all  that  knew  him,  few  but  judged  him 

wrong : 

He  was  of  silent  and  unsocial  mood : 
Unloving  and  unloved  he  passed  along : 
His  chosen  path  with  steadfast  aim  he 

trod, 

Nor  asked   nor  wished  applause,  save 
only  of  his  God. 

Oh !  how  preposterous  'tis  for  man  to  claim 
In  his  own  strength  to  chain  the  human 

soul! 

Go,  first,  and  learn  the  elements  to  tame, 
Ere  you  would  exercise  your  vain  control 
O'er  that  which  pants  and  strives  for  an 
immortal  goal. 

Yet  oft  a  young  and  generous  heart  has  been 
By  cruel  keepers  trampled  on  and  torn ; 
And  all  the  worst  and  wildest  passions  in 
The  human  breast  have  roused  them 
selves  in  scorn, 

That  else  had  dormant  slept,  or  never 
had  been  born. 

Take  heed,  ye  guardians  of  the  youthful 

mind, 
That  facile  grows  beneath  your  kindly 

care; 
'Tis  of  elastic  mould,  and,  if  confined 


With  too  much  stress, "shoots  madly  from 

its  sphere," 
Unswayed  by  love,  and  unrestrained  by 

fear. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  fearful,  blasting  sight  to  see 
The  soul  in  ruins,  withered,  rived  and 

wrung, 

And  doomed  to  spend  its  immortality, 
Darkling  and  hopeless,   where  despair 

has  flung 

Her  curtains  o'er  the  loves  to  which  it 
fondly  clung. 

So  thought  the  wanderer :  so,  perhaps,  he 

felt: 
(But  this  is  unrevealed):  now  had  he 

come 

To  the  far  woods,  and  there  in  silence  knelt 
On  the  sharp  flint-stone,  in  rayless  gloom, 
And  fervently  he  prayed  to  find  an  early 
tomb. 

Weep  not  for  him :  he  asks  no  sympathy 
From  human  hearts  or  eyes ;  aloof,  alone, 

On  his  own  spirit  let  him  rest,  and  be 
By  all  his  kind  forgotten  and  unknown  ; 
And  wild  winds  mingle  with  his  dying 
groan. 

And  in  the  desert  let  him  lie  and  sleep, 

Inthatsweetrest  exhausted  nature  gave ; 
Oh !  make  his  clay -cold  mansion  dark  and 

deep, 
While  the  tall  trees  their  somber  foliage 

wave, 

And  drop  it  blighted  on  the  wanderer's 
grave. 


JOHN  FINLEY. 


JOHN  FINLEY,  author  of  "The  Hoosier's  Nest" — a  poem  which,  without  his  name, 
has  been  published  in  a  majority  of  the  newspapers  of  America,  and  has  been  often 
quoted  in  England  as  a  graphic  specimen  of  backwoods  literature — is  a  native  of  Vir 
ginia,  He  was  born  at  Brownsburg,  Rockbridge  county,  on  the  eleventh  of  January, 
1797.  His  father  was  a  merchant.  John  was  sent  to  a  country  school  and  there 
learned  "to  read  and  write,  and  cipher  as  far  as  the  rule  of  three."  He  says  ten 
years  were  required  to  teach  him  that  much.  He  served  an  apprenticeship  as  a 
tanner  and  currier,  and  then  came  West.  He  was  married  at  Yellow  Springs,  Ohio, 
in  1826,  to  Rachel  H.  Knott.  He  was  then  a  citizen  of  Richmond,  Wayne  county, 
Indiana.  His  wife  died  and  he  was  married  a  second  time,  at  Indianapolis,  April 
ninth,  1830,  to  Julia  Hanson. 

That  Mr.  Finley  chose  wisely  when  he  selected  Richmond  as  his  home  is  evinced 
in  many  tokens  of  public  confidence  which  his  fellow-citizens  have  manifested.  He 
has  been  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Legislature  during  three  years,  Enrolling  Clerk  of 
the  State  Senate  three  years,  Clerk  of  the  Wayne  county  courts  seven  years,  and 
Mayor  of  Richmond  eight  years — an  office  he  now  holds.  He  was  also  for  several 
years  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Richmond  Palladium. 

"The  Hoosier's  Nest"  formed  a  part  of  a  New  Year's  Address,  written  in  1830,  for 
the  Indianapolis  Journal.  The  lines  "To  Indiana,"  hereafter  quoted,  were  also  a 
part  of  that  address.  Its  opening  stanza  expresses  happily  the  poet's  characteristics : 

Untaught  the  language  of  the  schools, 
Nor  versed  in  scientific  rules, 
The  humble  bard  may  not  presume 
The  Literati  to  illume, 
Or  classic  cadences  indite, 
Attuned  "  to  tickle  ears  polite  ;" 
Contented  if  his  strains  may  pass 
The  ordeal  of  the  common  mass, 
And  raise  an  anti-critic  smile, 
The  hour  of  labor  to  beguile. 

Mr.  Finley's  "Bachelor's  Hall"  has  been  very  widely  circulated  in  England,  as 
well  as  in  America,  with  Thomas  Moore's  name  to  it.  In  a  note  to  the  editor  he 
says:  "I  have  written  nothing  for  publication  for  many  years,  and  am  more  than  half 
ashamed  of  the  notoriety  my  scribblings  have  elicited,  when  I  could  have  written 
much  better.  *  *  *  I  have  prepared  my  manuscripts  for  a  volume — '  The  Hoosier's 
Nest  and  other  Poems' — but  as  I  have  not  preserved  more  than  about  enough  pieces 
to  make  a  book  of  one  hundred  pages,  the  presumption  is  against  my  ever  publishing 
in  book  form." 

(83) 


JOHN    FIN  LEY. 


[1830-40. 


TO  INDIANA. 

BLEST  Indiana !  in  thy  soil 
Are  found  the  sure  rewards  of  toil, 
Where  harvest,  purity  and  worth 
May  make  a  paradise  on  earth. 
With  feelings  proud  we  contemplate 
The  rising  glory  of  our  State ; 
Nor  take  offense  by  application 
Of  its  good-natured  appellation. 
Our  hardy  yeomanry  can  smile 
At  tourists  of  "the  sea-girt  Isle," 
Or  wits  who  traveled  at  the  gallop, 
Like  Basil  Hall,  or  Mrs.  Trollope. 
'Tis  true  among  the  crowds  that  roam, 
To  seek  for  fortune  or  a  home, 
It  happens  that  we  often  find 
Empiricism  of  every  kind. 

A  strutting  fop,  who  boasts  of  knowledge 
Acquired  at  some  far  eastern  college, 
Expects  to  take  us  by  surprise, 
And  dazzle  our  astonished  eyes. 
He  boasts  of  learning,  skill  and  talents, 
Which  in  the  scale,  would  Andes  balance, 
Cuts  widening  swaths  from  day  to  day, 
And  hi  a  month  he  runs  away. 

Not  thus  the  honest  son  of  toil, 
Who  settles  here  to  till  the  soil, 
And  with  intentions  just  and  good, 
Acquires  an  ample  livelihood  ; 
He  is  (and  not  the  little-great) 
The  bone  and  sinew  of  the  State. 
With  six-horse  team  to  one-horse  cart, 
We  hail  them  here  from  every  part. 
And  some  you'll  see,  sans  shoes  or  socki 

on, 

With  snake-pole  and  a  yoke  of  oxen : 
Others  with  pack-horse,  dog  and  rifle, 
Make  emigration  quite  a  trifle. 

The  emigrant  is  soon  located — 

In  Hoosier  life  initiated — 

Erects  a  cabin  in  the  woods, 

Wherein  he  stows  his  household  goods. 


At  first,  round  logs  and  clapboard  roof, 
With  puncheon  floor,  quite  carpet-proof, 
And  paper  windows,  oiled  and  neat. 
His  edifice  is  then  complete, 
When  four  clay  balls,  in  form  of  plum 
met, 

Adorn  his  wooden  chimney's  summit; 
Ensconced  in  this,  let  those  who  can 
Find  out  a  truly  happier  man. 
The  little  youngsters  rise  around  him, 
So  numerous  they  quite  astound  him ; 
Each  with  an  ax  or  wheel  in  hand, 
And  instinct  to  subdue  the  land. 

Ere  long  the  cabin  disappears, 
A  spacious  mansion  next  he  rears ; 
His  fields  seem  widening  by  stealth, 
An  index  of  increasing  wealth  ; 
And  when  the  hives  of  Hoosiers  swarm, 
To  each  is  given  a  noble  farm. 
These  are  the  seedlings  of  the  State, 
The  stamina  to  make  the  great. 


THE  HOOSIER'S  NEST. 

I'M  told,  in  riding  somewhere  West, 
A  stranger  found  a  Hoosier's  nest, 
In  other  words,  a  Buckeye  cabin, 
Just  big  enough  to  hold  Queen  Mab  in. 
Its  situation  low,  but  airy, 
Was  on  the  borders  of  a  prairie ; 
And  fearing  he  might  be  benighted, 
He  hailed  the  house,  and  then  alighted. 
The  Hoosier  met  him  at  the  door, 
Their  salutations  soon  were  o'er. 
He  took  the  stranger's  horse  aside, 
And  to  a  sturdy  sappling  tied; 
Then,  having  stripped  the  saddle  off, 
He  fed  him  in  a  sugar-trough. 

The  stranger  stooped  to  enter  in, 
The  entrance  closing  with  a  pin ; 
And  manifested  strong  desire 
To  sit  down  by  the  log-heap  fire, 
Where  half  a  dozen  Hoosieroons, 
With  mush  and  milk,  tin-cups  and  spoons, 


1830-40.] 


JOHN    FIN  LEY. 


White  heads,  bare  feet  and  dirty  faces, 
Seemed  much   inclined   to    keep    their 

places ; 

But  madam,  anxious  to  display 
Her  rough  but  undisputed  sway, 
Her  offspring  to  the  ladder  led, 
And  cuffed  the  youngsters  up  to  bed. 

Invited  shortly  to  partake, 
Of  venison,  milk,  and  johnny-cake, 
The  stranger  made  a  hearty  meal, 
And  glances  round  the  room  would  steal. 
One  side  was  lined  with  divers  garments, 
The  other,  spread  with  skins  of  varmints ; 
Dried  pumpkins  overhead  were  strung, 
Where  venison  hams  in  plenty  hung ; 
Two  rifles  placed  above  the  door, 
Three  dogs  lay  stretched  upon  the  floor — 
In  short,  the  domicil  was  rife 
With  specimens  of  Hoosier  life. 
The  host,  who  center'd  his  affections 
On  game,  and  range  and  quarter  sections, 
Discoursed  his  weary  guest  for  hours 
Till  Somnus'    all-composing  powers, 
Of  sublunary  cares  bereft  'em; 
And  then  I  come  away,  and  left  'em. 


A  WIFE  WANTED. 


YE  fair  ones  attend,  I've  an  offer  to  make  ye, 
In  Hymen's  soft  bands  I  am  anxious  to 

live; 
For  better,  for  worse,  a  companion  I'll  take 

me, 
Provided  she  fills  the  description  I  give. 

I  neither  expect  nor  can  hope  for  perfection, 
For  that  never  yet  was  a  bachelor's  lot, 

But,  choosing  a  wife,  I  would  make  a  se 
lection, 
Which  many  in  my  situation  would  not. 

I'd  have — let  me  see — no — I'd  not  have  a 

beauty, 
For  beautiful  women  are  apt  to  be  vain 


Yet  with  a  small  share,  I  would  think  it  a 

duty — 

To  take  her,  be  thankful,  and  never  com 
plain. 

Her  form  must  be  good,  without  art  to  con 
strain  it, 
And  rather  above  than  below  middle 

size ; 

A  something  (it  puzzles  my  brain  to  ex 
plain  it) 

Like  eloquent  language,  must  flow  from 
her  eyes. 

She  must  be  well-bred  or  I  could  not  re 
spect  her, 
Good-natured  and  modest,  but  not  very 

coy; 
Her    mind  well-formed — 'tis  the  purified 

nectar 
That  sweetens  the  cup  of  hymeneal  joy. 

Her  home  she  must  love,  and  domestic  em 
ployment — 
Have  practical  knowledge  of  household 

affairs ; 

And  make  it  a  part  of  her  highest  enjoy 
ment 

To  soften  my  troubles,  and  lighten  my 
cares. 

Her  age  I  would  have  at  the  least  to  be 

twenty, 
But   not   to  exceed  twenty-five  at  the 

most; 
And  girls  of  that  age  being  every  where 

plenty, 
I  hope  to  get  one  of  the  numerous  host. 

No  fortune  I  ask,  for  I've  no  predilection 
For  glitter  and  show,  or  the  pomp  of 

high  life ; 

I  wish  to  be  bound  by  the  cords  of  affec 
tion — 

And  now  I  have  drawn  you  a  sketch  of 
a  wife. 


86 


.10  II  N    FIX  LEY. 


[1830-40. 


If  any  possess  the  above  requisitions, 
And  wish  to  be  bound  by  the  conjugal 

band, 
They  will  please  to  step  forward,  they  know 

the  conditions ;  — 

Inquire  of  the  printer,  I'm  always  at 
hand. 


BACHELOR'S  HALL. 

(IN     IMITATION     OF     THE    IRISH.) 

BACHELOR'S  Hall !    What  a  quare  lookin' 

place  it  is ! 
Kape  me  from  sich  all  the  days  of  my 

life  ! 

Sure,  but  I  think  what  a  burnin'  disgrace  it  is, 
Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin'  a  wife. 

See   the   old   Bachelor,  gloomy   and   sad 

enough, 

Placing  his  tay-kettle  over  the  fire ; 
Soon  it  tips  over — Saint  Patrick !  he's  mad 

enough 

(If  he  were  present)   to  fight  wid  the 
Squire. 

Then,  like  a  hog  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing^ 
Awkward  enough,  see  him  knading  his 

dough ; 
Troth !    if  the  bread  he  could  ate  widout 

swallowing, 
How  it  would  favor  his  palate,  you  know  ! 

His  dish-cloth  is  missing — the  pigs  are  de 
vouring  it, 
In  the  pursuit  he  has  battered  his  shin ; 
A  plate  wanted    washing — Grimalkin    is 

scouring  it, 
Thunder  and  turf!  what  a  pickle  he's  in ! 

His  meal  being  over,  the  table's  left  setting 

so; 
Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves,  if  you 

can! 
But  hunger  returns, — then  he's  fuming  and 

fretting  so, 
Och !  Let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man ! 


Pots,  dishes,  pans,  and  such  grasy  commodi 
ties, 

Ashes  and  prata-skins,  kiver  the  floor ; 
His  -cupboard's  a  storehouse   of  comical 

oddities, 
Sich  as  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Late  in  the   night,  then,  he  goes  to  bed 

shiverin', 

Niver  the  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all ! 
He  crapes  like  a  tarrapin  under  the  kiv- 

erin', — 

Bad   luck   to   the  picter   of  Bachelor's 
Hall! 


TO  MY  OLD  COAT. 

AND  must  we  part — my  good  old  friend  ? 

Ah,  me ! — it  grieves  rne  sorely  ; 
I  can  no  more  thy  tatters  mend, 

The  stitches  hold  so  poorly. 

Thou  wast  my  father's  wedding  coat, 
And  I  have  heard  him  mention, 

He  wore  thee,  buttoned  to  the  throat, 
To  catch  the  girls'  attention ; — 

For  then  the  martial  figure  stood 

In  highest  estimation ; 
No  wonder,  with  a  coat  so  good, 

He  raised  their  admiration. 

Five  times  in  fashion  thou  hast  been, 
Twice  turned  and  often  mended  ; 

The  like  of  thee  I  ne'er  have  seen, 
Though  now  thy  days  are  ended. 

When  first  I  wore  thee  "  every  day," 

It  brought  to  mind  my  mother ; 

"  Tim,  save  that  coat,"  she  used  to  say, 

"  Thou'lt  ne'er  get  such  another." 

Yes  !  I'll  preserve  thy  relics  still, 
And  learn  by  that  example, 

My  every  duty  to  fulfill, 

Though  fate  should  on  me  trample. 


1830-40.] 


JOHN    FINLEY. 


87 


TO  A  SKELETON.* 

YEAR  after  year  its  course  has  sped, 
Age  after  age  has  passed  away ; 

And  generations,  born  and  dead, 

Have  mingled  with  their  kindred  clay, 

Since  this  rude  pile,  to  mem'ry  dear, 

Was  watered  by  affection's  tear. 

Perhaps  this  mould'ring  human  frame, 

In  death's  dark  slumber  wrapp'd  so  long, 
Once  wore  the  "  magic  of  a  name," 

The  pride  of  chivalry  and  song ; 
And  this  once  animated  earth, 

Haply  a  noble  soul  enshrined, 
A  feeling  heart,  of  sterling  worth, 

A  genius  bright,  though  unrefined. 
Perhaps — but  let  conjecture  cease; 
Departed  spirit!  rest  in  peace. 

No  legend  tells  thy  hidden  tale, 
Thou  relic  of  a  race  unknown  ! 

Oblivion's  deepest,  darkest  vail, 
Around  thy  history  is  thrown. 

Fate,  with  an  arbitrary  hand, 

Inscribed  thy  story  on  the  sand. 

The  sun,  in  whose  diurnal  race 

Was  measured  out  thy  earthly  span, 
Exhibits  his  unaltered  face, 

And  mocks  the  brevity  of  man. 
The  hill,  the  plain,  where  thou  hast  trod, 

Are  yearly  clad  in  garments  green ; 
While  thou  hast  lain  beneath  the  sod, 

Unconscious  of  the  lovely  scene. 
Yet  roll  the  river's  limpid  waves, 

Where  thou  of  yore  wert  wont  to  drink, 
And  yet  its  rising  current  laves 

The  rock  that  overhangs  its  brink  ; 
But  rock  and  river,  hill  and  plain, 
To  chaos  shall  return  again, 
And  e'en  the  radiant  orb  of  day, 
Like  thee,  frail  man,  must  pass  away. 


*  Lines  written  on  opening  a  mound  on  the  bank  of 
Whitewater  River.  Richmond,  la.,  and  finding  in  it  a 
human  skeleton. 


WHAT  IS  FAITH? 

FAITH  is  the  Christian's  prop, 

Whereon  his  sorrows  lean; 
It  is  the  substance  of  his  hope, 

His  proof  of  things  unseen ; 
It  is  the  anchor  of  the  soul, 
When  tempests  rage  and  billows  roll. 

Faith  is  the  polar  star 

That  guides  the  Christian's  bark, 
Directs  his  wanderings  from  afar, 

To  reach  the  holy  Ark ; 
It  points  his  course  where'er  he  roam, 
And  safely  leads  the  pilgrim  home. 

Faith  is  the  rainbow's  form, 
Hung  on  the  brow  of  heaven ; 

The  glory  of  the  passing  storm, 
The  pledge  of  mercy  given ; 

It  is  the  bright,  triumphal  arch, 

Through  which  the  saints  to  glory  march. 

Faith  is  the  mountain  rock, 

Whose  summit  towers  on  high, 

Secure  above  the  tempest's  shock, 
An  inmate  of  the  sky  ; 

Fixed  on  a  prize  of  greater  worth, 

It  views  with  scorn  the  things  of  earth. 

Faith  is  the  lightning's  flash, 

That  rends  the  solid  rock, 
From  which  the  living  waters  gush, 

At  every  vivid  shock; 
While  Sinai's  awful  thunders  roll 
Around  the  self-convicted  soul. 

The  faith  that  works  by  love, 

And  purifies  the  heart, 
A  foretaste  of  the  joys  above 

To  mortals  can  impart : 
The  Christian's  faith  is  simply  this — 
A  passport  to  immortal  bliss. 


OTWAY  CU1111Y. 


OTWAY  CURRY  was  born  March  twenty-six,  1804,  on  a  farm  which  has  since  given 
place  to  the  village  of  Greenfield,  Highland  county,  Ohio.  His  father,  James 
Curry,  was  a  man  of  great  bravery  and  patriotism.  In  his  youth  he  was,  with  some 
Virginia  troops,  in  a  bloody  engagement  near  the  mouth  of  the  Kanawha,  on  which 
occasion  he  was  severely  wounded.  During  the  greater  part  of  the  Revolutionary 
War,  he  was  an  officer  of  the  Virginia  Continental  Line ;  he  was  at  the  battles  of 
Germantown  and  Monmouth,  and  was  taken  prisoner  when  the  American  army,  under 
General  Lincoln,  surrendered  to  the  British  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  For  four 
teen  months  subsequently,  he  was  on  parole  twro  miles  distant  from  that  city. 

He  must  have  been  one  of  the  earliest  pioneers  of  Ohio.  In  1811  he  removed 
from  Highland  county,  and  settled  on  Darby  Creek,  near  the  village  of  Pleasant  Val 
ley,  in  the  county  of  Union,  where  he  held  many  important  civil  offices,  the  duties  of 
which  he  faithfully  discharged.  He  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  agriculture,  and  he 
was  doubtless  a  man  of  strong  common  sense,  industrious  habits,  and  honorable  char 
acter.  He  died  in  1834.  The  poet's  mother  was  a  lady  of  much  intelligence,  tender 
sensibilities,  and  every  social  and  domestic  virtue. 

Otway  was  a  child  of  the  wilderness — a  situation  not  unsuitable  to  awaken  imagina 
tion,  to  cultivate  taste,  and  to  call  forth  the  love  of  nature  and  the  spirit  of  poesy. 
The  approach  of  the  bear,  the  rattle  of  the  snake,  the  whoop  of  the  savage,  were 
among  the  sources  of  his  early  fears.  To  observe  the  swallow  build  her  nest  in  the 
barn,  and  to  watch  the  deer  bounding  through  the  bushes,  were  among  his  early 
amusements ;  to  mark  when  the  dogwood  blossoms,  and  when  the  north  winds  blow, 
to  observe  how  nature  mingles  storm  with  sunshine,  and  draws  the  rainbow  on  the 
cloud,  were  among  his  first  lessons  in  philosophy. 

He  probably  learned  his  alphabet  in  the  old  family  Bible,  as  he  leaned  against  the 
jamb  of  the  cabin  fire-place.  There  was  then  no  school  law  in  Ohio ;  the  school- 
house  was  built  by  common  consent,  usually  in  the  center  of  the  clearings,  and  on  an 
eminence,  reminding  one  of  Beattie's  lines : 

"Ah,  who  can  toll  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar!" 

It  was  constructed  of  unhewn  logs,  floored  with  puncheons,  and  roofed  with  clap 
boards  ;  having  at  one  end  a  fire-place  capable  of  receiving  a  twelve-foot  back-log, 
and  at  the  other  a  door,  with  a  latch  and  string ;  it  was  completed  by  sawing  out  a  log 
at  each  side,  inserting  in  the  opening  a  light  frame,  and  stretching  over  this  frame 
some  foolscap  paper  well  oiled ;  this  served  for  the  transmission  of  light,  which  fell 
with  mellowed  beams  upon  a  sloping  board,  on  which  the  copy-books  of  advanced 
scholars  were  to  be  placed.  In  the  center  of  the  room  were  benches  without  backs, 
made  of  slabs,  by  inserting  upright  sticks  at  their  extremities. 

(  88  ) 


183>)  40.]  OT  WAY    CURRY.  89 

The  season  for  instruction  was  called  a  quarter,  and  usually  extended  from  Novem 
ber  to  March ;  though  short,  it  was  long  enough  to  enable  the  pupil  to  receive  all  the 
knowledge  that  the  teacher  could  spare.  The  subjects  taught  were  reading,  writing, 
spelling,  and  arithmetic  as  far  as  the  rule  of  three.  Grammar  was  ranked  among  the 
natural  sciences,  and  geography  among  the  classics.  At  the  appointed  time  the  chil 
dren  proceed  to  the  school-house,  guided  by  the  blazes  of  the  trees.  Here  they  come, 
young  and  old,  male  and  female,  each  having  text-books  unlike  those  of  all  others. 
Anticipating  amusement  as  well  as  instruction,  one  brings  a  violin,  another  a  dog,  a 
third  a  Jews-harp,  etc.  They  venture  to  suggest,  at  the  outset,  to  the  teacher,  that  in 
order  to  have  a  good  school,  it  is  necessary  to  have  short  recitations,  long  intermis 
sions,  and  good  entertainment.  Organization  is  out  of  the  question ;  each  scholar 
must  recite  in  turn  out  of  his  own  book,  and  bring  up  his  slate  as  his  sums  are  worked. 
Order  is  almost  as  impracticable  as  organization. 

Happily  there  were  other  means  of  instruction  and  mental  development ;  the  debat 
ing  club,  the  neighborhood  meeting,  the  singing-school,  etc.,  but,  above  all,  the  home. 
Our  young  poet  heard  his  father  relate  the  tale  of  the  Revolution,  the  wrongs  of  the 
colonists,  their  determined  rebellion,  their  bloody  battles,  and  their  final  triumphs ;  he 
also  heard  him  describe  the  characters  of  the  leading  statesmen  and  warriors  of  that 
period,  the  organization  of  the  State  and  National  Governments,  the  causes,  and 
actors,  and  consequences  of  the  war  of  1812.  These  details  would  make  others  nec 
essary  ;  and  we  can  imagine  how  Otway  would  ascend  through  the  history  of  the 
United  States  to  that  of  Great  Britain,  and  from  that  of  Great  Britain  to  that  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  so  on,  up  to  the  great  nations  of  antiquity.  We  can  see  how  history 
would  make  geography  and  politics  needful,  and  how  these  would  lead  an  inquiring 
mind,  by  nearer  or  remoter  routes,  to  all  the  branches  of  education. 

Moreover,  the  pious  mother  had  her  pleasant  legends  and  fairy  tales,  with  which 
she  kept  down  the  rising  sigh,  and  kept  up  the  leaden  eyelids  of  the  little  ones  as  she 
sat  plying  her  spinning-wheel,  and  waiting  for  the  return  of  her  husband  from  the 
mill,  when  the  driving  snow-storm  delayed  him  far  into  the  hours  of  night.  She 
seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  no  ordinary  woman ;  she  was  accustomed  to  relate  over 
and  over,  at  her  fireside,  the  whole  story  of  Paradise  Lost,  as  well  as  of  many  other 
classic  poems,  so  that  young  Otway  was  familiar  with  their  scenes  and  characters  long 
before  he  could  read.  She  would  often  beguile  the  weary  hours  of  summer  nights  as 
she  sat  in  the  cabin  door  with  her  young  ones,  watching  for  the  return  of  the  older 
from  the  perilous  chase,  by  naming  the  constellations  as  they  came  up  to  the  horizon, 
and  explaining  the  ordinances  of  heaven. 

The  school  education  of  Otway  was  impeded  by  the  events  of  the  war  of  1812. 
When  it  broke  out  the  father  was  summoned  to  Chillicothe,  as  a  member  of  the  Leg 
islature  ;  the  eldest  brother  went  out  with  the  army ;  the  rest  of  the  family  remained 
upon  the  farm  under  the  superintendence  of  the  prudent  and  patriotic  mother.  Alone 
in  the  wilderness,  surrounded  by  hostile  savages,  they  were  never  molested,  though 
often  alarmed.  On  one  occasion  their  horses  showed  every  indication  of  fear ;  their 
dogs  barked  furiously,  now  rushing  into  the  cornfield,  and  then  retreating  with  brist- 


90  OT  WAY    CURRY.  [1830-40. 

ling  hair,  as  if  driven.  The  family,  concluding  that  Indians  were  near,  prepared  to 
fight  as  well  us  pray.  The  old  lady,  in  marshaling  her  forces,  stationed  young  Otway 
at  the  bars,  and  placing  a  loaded  gun  upon  a  rest,  charged  him  to  take  aim  and  tire  as 
soon  as  he  saw  an  Indian.  Fortunately,  there  was  no  attack  made  upon  the  domestic 
fort. 

As  the  young  poet  grew  up  he  began  to  read  the  books  of  his  father's  library, 
which,  though  very  small,  was  very  choice,  consisting  of  the  writings  of  Milton,  Locke, 
and  other  great  minds.  Before  he  attained  majority  he  had  an  opportunity  of  attend 
ing  a  school  of  improved  character.  There  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pleasant 
Valley  a  Mr.  C.,  who,  though  a  farmer,  had  a  good  English  education.  He  drafted 
deeds,  wills,  and  articles  of  agreement,  gave  counsel,  and  .settled  controversies,  and 
during  the  winter  taught  a  select  school  in  his  own  house.  Of  this  opportunity 
Otway  availed  himself,  and  thus  received  instruction  in  grammar  and  geography.  He, 
soon  after,  in  company  with  a  brother,  made  a  trip  to  Cincinnati,  traveling  on  foot 
through  the  woods.  Whether  he  had  any  other  object  than  improvement,  I  am  not 
advised,  but  he  soon  returned  with  his  appetite  for  travel  unabated.  But  how  should 
it  be  gratified  ?  To  accumulate  money  by  agricultural  pursuits,  at  that  time,  was  im 
possible  ;  the  clearings  were  small,  the  mode  of  farming  laborious ;  merchandise  was 
very  high,  and  produce  very  low  ;  while  coffee  was  twenty-five  cents  a  pound,  tea  a 
dollar  and  fifty,  coarse  muslin  twenty-five  cents  a  yard,  indigo  fifty  cents  an  ounce, 
and  camphor  worth  its  weight  in  silver ;  butter  and  maple-sugar  were  six  cents  a 
pound,  corn  fifteen  cents  a  bushel,  and  wheat  twenty-five  cents.  Ginseng  and  bees 
wax  were  the  only  articles  that  would  bear  transportation  to  the  east. 

Young  Curry,  therefore,  determined  to  learn  a  trade.  This  could  be  done  without 
much  expense,  and  would  enable  him  to  travel  where  he  pleased,  and  earn  a  living  in 
any  location.  Accordingly,  in  1823,  he  went  to  Lebanon  and  learned  the  art  of  car 
pentry  ;  four  or  five  months  afterward  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  and  continued  there, 
working  at  his  trade,  for  nearly  a  year.  We  next  hear  of  him  at  the  city  of  Detroit, 
where  he  spent  a  summer,  busily  plying  his  hammer  and  driving  his  plane,  all  the 
while  reserving  time  for  study,  pondering  the  pages  of  science  and  poetry ;  sometimes 
by  the  light  of  shavings,  at  the  lone  hours  of  night,  or  the  more  propitious  period 
that  precedes  the  dawn.  Returning  to  Ohio,  he  passed  some  time  at  work  in  the  vil 
lage  of  Marion. 

Moved  by  romantic  impulses,  he,  in  company  with  a  Henry  Wilson,  made  a  skiff, 
and  launching  it  at  Millville — a  small  village  on  the  Scioto — when  the  waters  were 
swelled  with  rains,  descended  that  stream  to  its  mouth,  surmounting  mill-dams,  rocks, 
and  all  other  obstructions.  He  then  descended  the  Ohio  to  Cincinnati.  Here  he 
determined  to  visit  the  rice  fields  and  orange  groves  of  the  South.  Procuring  a  pas- 
MILT«'  on  a  flat-boat,  for  himself  and  a  chest  of  tools,  he  proceeded  down  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi,  ami  spent  ;i  year  at  Port  Gibson  before  he  returned. 

About  this  time  he  summoned  courage  to  offer  anonymously  some  verses  to  the 
new-paper.*,  amoii£  which  were  his  sweet  poems  "My  Mother,"  and  "Kingdom  Come." 
It  is  probable  that  he  had  written  poetry  long  before,  but  we  are  not  able  to  trace  the 


I 

1830-40.]  OTWAY    CURRY.  91 

progress  of  his  mind  from  the  first  rude  attempts  at  versification  up  to  his  best  orig 
inal  composition.  How  many  pages  were  consigned  to  the  flames  after  having  been 
corrected,  recited,  committed  to  memory,  and  conned  during  the  sleepless  nights  when 
nothing  distracted  his  mind  but  the  rustling  of  the  forest  leaves,  or  the  music  of  the 
katydid !  Could  we  get  the  genesis  of  even  one  living  poetical  creation,  how  much 
upheaving  and  downthrowing ;  how  much  fiery  and  watery  agitation ;  how  many 
depositions  in  darkness,  should  we  see,  before  even  a  stand-point  was  gained  ;  and  then, 
how  long  after  this  before  light  comes,  and  the  spirit  moves  on  the  face  of  the  waters ! 

Mr.  Curry's  first  published  poetry  was  so  full  of  fine  sentiment  and  pleasing  imagery, 
and  was  withal  so  melodious  in  versification,  that  it  attracted  attention  and  won  admi 
ration  at  once.  On  his  return  to  Cincinnati,  he  contributed  more  freely  to  the  press, 
over  the  signature  of  "Abdallah."  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  formed  the  acquaint 
ance  of  Wm.  D.  Gallagher,  who  was  induced  to  seek  for  him  by  reading  his  stanzas, 
"The  Minstrel's  Home."  This  acquaintance  was  improved  by  time,  and  unbroken 
by  jealousy,  envy,  or  serious  misunderstanding.  On  leaving  Cincinnati,  Mr.  Curry 
returned  to  Union  county,  where,  in  December,  1828,  he  was  married  to  Mary  Note- 
man,  a  lady  well  worthy  of  him,  and  who  became  a  prudent  and  devoted  wife. 

In  1829  he  again  visited  the  South,  and  spent  four  or  five  months  at  Baton  Rouge, 
contributing,  meanwhile,  poetical  productions  both  to  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  the 
Cincinnati  Chronicle.  Upon  his  return,  he  settled  in  Union  county,  and  engaged 
anew  in  agricultural  pursuits,  which  he  prosecuted  with  industry  till  1839.  While  on 
his  farm  he  courted  the  muses  as  opportunity  offered,  and  issued  some  of  his  best 
verses  from  his  rural  home. 

He  first  appeared  in  public  life  in  1836,  when  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Representatives,  in  the  State  Legislature  of  Ohio.  In  this  capacity  he  won 
the  respect  of  his  colleagues,  and  the  confidence  and  approbation  of  his  constituents, 
who  re-elected  him  in  1837.  In  1838  he  became  united  with  Mr.  Gallagher  in  the 
editorship  of  the  Hesperian,  at  Columbus — a  monthly  literary  journal  of  high  order, 
which,  not  being  adequately  sustained,  was  discontinued  at  the  end  of  the  third  volume. 
In  1839  he  removed  to  Marysville,  arid  commenced  the  study  of  the  law.  In  1842 
he  was  again  returned  to  the  Legislature ;  during  that  term  of  service  he  purchased 
the  Greene  County  Torch  Light,  a  weekly  paper  published  at  Xenia,  whither  he 
removed  in  the  spring  of  1843.  He  conducted  his  paper — the  style  of  which  he 
changed  to  Xenia  Torch  Light — in  a  very  creditable  manner,  for  two  successive  years, 
when  he  sold  it,  and  removing  to  Marysville,  thenceforward  devoted  himself  to  his 
profession. 

Although  he  entered  the  law  late  in  life,  and  practiced  it  scarcely  ten  years,  yet,  as 
we  are  assured  by  one  of  his  ablest  competitors,  he  had  no  superior  as  a  sound  lawyer, 
within  the  range  of  his  practice,  and  bade  fair,  if  his  life  had  been  spared  a  few  years 
longer,  to  become  an  eminent  legal  mind. 

In  1850  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  second  Ohio  Constitutional  Convention, 
and  with  manly  firmness  and  dignity  he  resisted  some  of  the  principles  of  the  instru 
ment  which  that  able  body  elaborated. 


92  OTWAY    CURRY.  [1830-40. 

Ill  1853  he  purchased  the  Scioto  Gazette — a  daily  published  in  Chillicothe — which 
he  edited  with  characteristic  ability  for  about  a  year,  when,  his  wife's  health  failing, 
he  sold  out,  and  returning  to  Marysville,  resumed  his  legal  practice. 

In  January,  1854,  Mr.  Curry  was  President  of  the  Ohio  Editorial  Convention  at 
Cincinnati,  and  by  the  urbanity  and  dignity  of  his  deportment  enhanced  largely  the 
respect  entertained  for  him  by  many  Ohio  editors,  who  had  long  known  his  poetry, 
but  had  never  before  met  him  personally. 

In  1842,  when  in  attendance  as  a  member  of  the  Legislature,  he  suffered  an  attack 
of  bilious  pneumonia,  which  had  such  an  effect  upon  his  mind,  that  on  recovering  he 
made  a  profession  of  faith  in  that  Gospel  which  had  guided  his  steps  and  comforted 
his  heart,  by  uniting  with  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  in  whose  fellowship  he 
continued  till  he  died. 

Mr.  Curry  had  an  open  countenance,  impaired,  however,  by  strabismus,  a  broad  and 
lofty  brow,  a  noble  form,  tall  and  well  proportioned,  which  might  have  borne  with  ease 
the  armor  of  a  knight  of  the  middle  ages.  His  spirit  was  that  of  southern  chivalry 
mino-led  with  the  Puritan.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  taste.  This  he  exhibited  in  his 

O 

dress,  his  language,  his  reading,  in  fine,  in  every  thing.  Though  he  never  wore  any 
thing  gaudy  or  extravagant,  he  had  none  of  Dr.  Johnson's  indifference  to  fine  linen  ; 
satisfied  with  garments  neat,  good,  and  clean,  he  was  unhappy  if  they  were  soiled, 
badly  fitted,  or  of  unsuitable  material.  Under  such  circumstances,  he  felt  depreciated, 
and  could  not  be  enticed  into  company.  In  selecting  cloth  for  his  own  use,  he  has 
been  known  to  examine  the  same  piece  ten  times  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind 
concerning  it. 

When  I  first  visited  him  he  dwelt  in  a  humble  cottage,  but  it  bore,  both  outside  and 
inside,  the  marks  of  neatness  and  delicacy ;  flowers  bordered  the  walks,  and  vines 
climbed  the  trellis ;  modest  carpets  covered  the  floors,  and  choice  books,  with  elegant 
bindings,  spread  the  table.  Later  in  life,  he  occupied  a  house  more  spacious,  but  it 
bore  the  indications  of  neatness,  free  from  ostentation.  Upon  his  porch  a  magnificent 
weeping  willow  threw  its  shade  and  beautifully  symbolized  the  owner's  mind. 

His  words,  whether  written  or  spoken,  were  few  and  well  chosen.  This  is  the  more 
remarkable,  considering  that  his  early  education  was  so  limited.  He  would  allow  no 
thought  of  his  to  go  abroad  in  an  unsuitable  garment,  however  protracted  might  be 
the  process  of  fitting  it.  When  he  wrote  for  the  press  his  first  drafts  were  scanned, 
laid  aside,  examined  again,  altered,  and  re-written,  sometimes  often,  before  they  were 
published.  Every  word  was  scrutinized.  Hence,  his  poems  bear  criticism,  and  will 
be  best  appreciated  by  those  who  most  closely  examine  them.  Of  his  opinions  he 
was  as  careful  as  of  his  words.  Cautious  and  skeptical  to  a  fault,  he  never  expressed 
or  formed  an  opinion  without  revolving  the  matter  in  his  mind,  long  and  carefully, 
and  reviewing  it  in  all  its  bearings. 

Mr.  Curry's  reading  was  remarkably  tasteful  and  impressive.  Of  this  Mr.  Galla 
gher  uses  the  following  terms:  "Mr.  Curry's  voice  and  manner  of  reading  gave  to  his 
poems  a  peculiar  charm.  And  when  this  was  heightened,  as  it  often  was,  at  that 
period,  by  the  quiet  of  night,  the  rustling  of  leaves,  the  fitful  echoes  of  far-off  sounds, 


183 J  40.]  OTWAY   CURRY.  <JP> 

the  witchery  of  murmuring  winds  and  waters,  and  other  accompaniments  of  a  moon 
light  ramble,  prolonged  into  the  morning  hours,  the  fascination  was  irresistible.  On 
one  of  these  occasions,  as  we  sat  overlooking  the  expanse  of  the  beautiful  Ohio,  the 
midnight  moon  and  an  autumnal  haze  enveloping  the  whole  scene  in  robes  of  softened 
radiance,  and  peculiar  dreaminess,  the  whole  of  some  provincial  romance  was  recited 
with  a  power  whose  weird  influence  rests  upon  my  memory  yet." 

Mr.  Curry's  name  is  without  a  spot.  In  early  life  he  labored  with  his  hands,  in 
later  years  with  his  mind ;  always  rendering  either  moral  or  material  benefit  for  all 
that  he  received.  When  called  to  office,  it  was  by  unsolicited  suffrages,  and  when 
placed  in  power,  he  was  no  tool  of  party.  No  speeches  for  sinister  ends,  no  motion 
for  factious  purposes,  no  empty  declamations,  or  busy  demonstrations,  or  crafty  schemes 
disgraced  his  political  career.  Guided  by  a  sense  of  duty  to  his  country,  he  walked 
heedless  alike  of  private  threats  and  popular  clamor.  At  the  bar  he  was  the  shield 
of  innocence,  the  terror  of  guilt,  and  the  moderator  of  justice.  Though  liable,  like 
other  men,  to  be  deceived  by  his  client  and  influenced  by  his  passions,  he  would  not 
enforce  what  he  deemed  an  unjust  claim  or  prosecute  a  just  one  in  an  unjust  mode. 
As  an  editor,  he  manifested  the  same  integrity,  though  sorely  tried.  Once  determined 
on  his  course,  he  stopped  at  no  obstacles,  heeded  no  persecution,  and  declined  no  con 
flict.  He  was,  however,  too  modest,  unambitious,  and  averse  to  public  life  for  a 
leader. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  social  and  domestic  virtue.  As  a  neighbor,  he  was  consid 
erate,  peaceful,  obliging,  and  hospitable ;  looking  with  patience  upon  the  weakness, 
and  with  silence  upon  the  wrongs  of  others,  he  cherished  no  malignity,  fomented  no 
disputes,  flattered  no  patron,  and  pierced  no  victim.  Though  not  insensible  to  ingrat 
itude,  meanness,  and  injury,  he  was  too  respectful  of  himself  and  too  charitable  toward 
others  to  indulge  in  any  utterances  that  would  give  pain,  unless  they  were  necessary 
to  a  prudent  maintenance  of  right.  He  was  as  far  from  being  a  cynic  as  a  parasite. 

He  was  not  polite,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  He  looked  austere,  and  was 
generally  regarded  by  the  stranger  as  proud,  distant,  and  affected.  A  great  mistake. 
General  society,  indeed,  he  shrank  from ;  the  thoughtless  multitude  he  studiously 
avoided ;  the  busy  marts  of  commerce,  with  their  deafening  din  and  overreaching 
plots,  he  eyed  with  coldness  and  disdain  ;  the  cabals  and  intrigues  of  politics  he  shun 
ned  with  mingled  pity  and  indignation ;  the  whole  sinful  world  he  was  wont  to  regard 
as  unjust,  harsh,  and  hollow-hearted ;  to  the  prattler,  he  was  shy ;  to  the  sensualist, 
studiously  repellant ;  to  the  skeptic,  painfully  reserved.  There  was  something,  at 
times,  even  terrible  in  his  distance  ;  but  to  those  whom  he  admitted  to  his  acquaint 
ance  he  was  gentle  as  the  south  wind — his  heart  glowed  with  love  and  yearned  for 
friendship.  So  subtile  was  his  imagination,  so  profound  his  philosophy,  so  mystical 
his  expressions,  so  strong,  so  pure,  so  unwasting  his  affections  that  few  could  appre 
ciate  him.  Pie  knew  this,  and  hence  before  the  gazers  in  the  outer  court  of  his  spirit 
he  lifted  not  the  vail ;  but  with  an  intelligent,  confiding,  imaginative  friend,  whose 
spirit  was  in  harmony  with  his  own,  he  was  communicative,  fervent,  at  times  even 
vehement,  occasionally  witty,  sometimes  humorous,  but  always  genial,  always  reverent. 


94  OTW  AY   CURRY.  [1830-40. 

In  his  home  he  found  a  paradise.  Thither  his  steps  tended  when  the  toils  of  the 
day  were  over ;  there,  among  his  little  ones,  he  talked  as  a  child,  he  thought  as  a 
child,  he  played  as  a  child ;  there,  too,  he  rejoiced  with  the  wife  of  his  youth,  and 
found  in  her  smiles  a  recompense  for  his  labors  and  a  refuge  from  his  cares.  He  was 
a  man  of  fervent  and  unostentatious  piety,  and  he  delighted  in  simplicity  of  worship. 

lie  had  a  fine  imagination,  which  was  not,  perhaps,  always  properly  restrained. 
In  youth  he  indulged  in  castle-building,  delighted  in  tales  and  romances,  and  dwelt 
much  in  fairy-land ;  so  much  so  that  he  was  deemed,  by  those  who  did  not  know  him 
well,  to  be  moody  in  his  temper  and  dreamy  in  his  views.  Mr.  Gallagher,  speaking 
of  him  in  early  life,  says:  "The  peculiar  characteristics  of  Mr.  Curry,  since  freely 
developed,  were  then  distinctly  lined.  He  cultivated  music  with  literature,  and  per 
formed  well  upon  the  flute.  The  strains  of  his  instrument  were  touchingly  sweet,  as 
were  those  of  his  pen.  Both  lacked  vigor  of  expression,  and  were  dreamy  in  the 
extreme.  His  flute  drew  its  airs  from  a  feudal  and  castled  age,  when  melancholy 
minstrels  wooed  romantic  maidens  by  stealth,  and  chivalrous  knights  dared  death  and 
dishonor  for  the  favor  of  high-born  dames.  His  pen  found  a  feast,  also,  in  his  imag 
inative  soul,  and  from  that  drew  pensive  airs  which  melted  his  own  heart  to  tears,  and 
touched  the  hearts  of  others.  But  of  the  music  of  the  battle-field,  or  that  of  the 
stage,  or  of  the  fashionable  saloon,  his  flute  rarely  discoursed ;  so  of  the  conflict  of 
opinion,  the  struggles  of  the  muses,  the  aspirations  of  the  soul  after  a  higher  and 
nobler  freedom  here  upon  earth,  the  clamor,  and  clash,  and  upheaving,  and  down- 
throwing  that  are  of  the  elements  of  progress,  his  pen  took  no  note." 

His  writings  seem  wanting  in  some  of  the  fruits  of  imagination.  They  exhibit  no 
wit  or  humor — not,  however,  because  of  incapacity,  but  because  they  were  unsuitable 
to  his  themes.  He  was  of  too  serious  and  reverent  a  spirit  to  mingle  grotesque 
images  and  unexpected  associations  with  subjects  of  religious  faith.  He  had  but  little 
oratorical  genius.  •  He  could  not  arouse  and  amuse  a  popular  assembly.  His  prose 
is  remarkably  free  from  tropes  and  metaphors.  Even  his  poetry  lacks  too  much  the 
charm  of  figurative  language.  He  never  presents  us  with  the  terrible,  rarely  with 
the  grand,  never  with  the  sublime.  It  must  be  admitted,  therefore,  that  his  imagina 
tion  was  not  of  the  highest  order;  still  it  was  superior,  and  being  active  in  his  youth, 
it  directed  his  reading,  selected  his  comparisons,  shaped  his  course  in  life,  and  con 
tributed  greatly  to  his  sorrows  and  his  joys.  He  dwelt  much  in  the  inner  world, 
which  lie  made  more  beautiful  and  enchanting  than  the  outer.  Here  were  fountains 
that  never  failed,  grass  that  concealed  no  snakes,  forests  traversed  by  no  savage 
foe,  angels  whom  he  could  see  face  to  face.  This  weakened  his  attention  to 
the  real  world,  and  rendered  him  averse  to  its  struggles,  frivolities,  and  pursuits, 
and  even  reluctant  to  enter  upon  the  duties  of  life  and  the  enterprises  of  science  and 
virtue. 

Rebecca  S.  Nichols,  herself  a  child  of  song,  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Curry,  thus 
beautifully  describes  his  soul-life : 

Wit'iin.  UK*  holy  fire  of  poesy  burned  clear  and  bright,  refining  the  material  man,  and  lifting  the 
more  eth<  real  element  of  our  twofold  nature  up  to  the  realms  of  love,  and  faith,  and  peace,  where 


]  830-40.]  OT  WAY    CURRY.  95 

the  indwelling  soul  preludes  the  feast  of  immortal  joys.  No  petty  ambitions,  no  goading  desires 
for  name  and  fame  among  the  great  of  earth,  ever  soiled  the  bosom  of  our  friend.  To  move  qui 
etly  in  his  accustomed  round  of  prescribed  duties — to  enjoy  the  communion  of  chosen  and  congenial 
minds — to  yield  himself  up  to  the  manifold  enchantments  of  inspiring  nature — to  utter  in  verse, 
smooth  and  musical  as  his  favorite  streams,  the  live  thoughts  of  the  passing  moments,  made  up  the 
sum  of  his  daily  happiness  ;  and  if  a  shade  of  sadness,  as  of  some  secret  and  acknowledged  sorrow, 
bordered  the  placid  beauty  of  existence,  it  only  added  tenderness  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew 
and  loved  him,  and  made  them  more  eager  to  minister  to  his  simple  and  unadulterated  pleasures. 

Mr.  Curry's  sorrow  was  softened  by  sublime  faith.  He  traced  the  departed  good 
in  all  the  charms  of  "saints  made  perfect,"  into  the  heavenly  world.  He  believed, 
with  Milton,  that 

"  Millions  of  spirits  walk  the  earth  unseen, 
Both  when  we  wake  and  when 'we  sleep," 

and  that  those  who  loved  us  in  life  bear  their  love  into  heaven,  and  often  come  down 
from  their  blissful  seats  to  be  our  "  ministering  spirits  on  earth."  It  is  a  beautiful 
faith,  which  we  would  not  disturb. 

He  felt  the  light  of  an  endless  morning,  and  dwelt  in  the  vicinity  of  heaven.  He 
was  like  one  in  a  cavern,  speaking  up  the  shaft  to  loved  ones  listening  in  the  light 
above.  With  all  his  imagination  he  was  a  man  of  safe  and  sober  judgment.  His 
life  shows  that  he  could  unite  the  practical  with  the  poetical.  As  an  agriculturist,  a 
mechanic,  a  legislator,  an  editor,  and  a  lawyer,  he  was  respectable  ;  as  a  critic  and  a 
poet,  he  was  more.  When  we  consider  that,  although  he  entered  upon  life  without 
property,  education,  or  the  interest  of  leading  friends,  and  never  enjoyed  a  lucrative 
office  or  made  a  fortunate  speculation,  yet  sustained  and  educated  his  family  reputably, 
and  responded  to  the  calls  of  charity  and  religion,  we  must  concede  that  his  mind  was 
well  balanced. 

There  is  nothing  eccentric  in  his  character,  nothing  wonderful  in  his  deeds  or  suffer 
ings  ;  he  moved  in  obedience  to  the  ordinary  laws  of  the  human  mind,  and  experi 
enced  the  common  lot  of  good  men.  His  life  began  in  melody,  progressed  in  conflict, 
but  closed  in  peace ;  we  know  nothing  in  it  that  might  not  be  written  in  an  epic.  His 
writings  also  are  pure ;  they  contain  nothing  which  might  not  safely  be  read  by  all 
men.  They  may  not  present  us  with  any  thing  sublime,  neither  do  they  with  any 
thing  absurd  or  trifling ;  their  chief  fault,  perhaps,  is  their  want  of  variety.  Most  of 
them  were  the  productions  of  his  youth,  written  in  the  intervals  of  daily  toil.* 

Mr.  Curry's  chief  characteristic  was  his  taste.  His  mind  was  in  harmony  with 
nature ;  he  had  a  relish  for  all  beauty.  To  him  it  was  not  in  vain  that  God  painted 
the  landscape  green,  cast  the  channels  of  the  streams  in  graceful  curves,  lighted  up 
the  arch  of  night,  and  turned  the  gates  of  the  day  on  golden  hinges  amid  the  anthems 
of  a  grateful  world.  No  thirst  for  wealth,  no  conflict  for  honor,  no  lust  of  meaner 
pleasures  destroyed  his  sensibility  to  the  harmonies  and  proportions  of  the  universe. 
From  a  child  he  was  fond  of  nature  and  solitude ;  as  he  grew  up  poets  were  his  com 
panions  ;  with  them  he  sympathized ;  with  them  he  sat,  side  by  side,  in  the  enchanted 

*  Several  of  his  poems  which  have  met  most  favor,  were  first  published  as  extracts,  from  "  The  Maniac  Minstrel — 
a  Tale  of  Palestine."    An  elaborate  poem,  nearly  completed,  was  lost  a  short  time  before  Mr.  Curry's  death. 


96  OT  WAY    CURRY.  [1830-40. 

land  of  song ;  to  see,  to  enjoy  what  the  idle,  the  worldly,  and  the  profane  cannot ; 
this  was  not  merely  his  pastime,  but  his  living.  A  luxurious  melancholy  chastened  his 
spirit  and  mellowed  the  light  which  it  reflected. 

There  is  an  intimate  connection  between  beauty  and  goodness — the  latter  is  to  the 
former  what  the  soul  is  to  the  body  ;  the  beauty  that  beams  upon  us  from  the  face  of 
nature  is  but  the  expression  of  Divine  goodness — the  smile  by  which  God  would  at 
tract  us  to  his  arms.  If  so,  he  who  is  truly  enamored  of  beauty  must  aspire  after  God, 
and  as  goodness  is  necessary  to  bring  us  into  communion  with  him,  he  must  pant 
after  that.  Nothing  but  depravity  can  prevent  this  natural  result. 

The  love  of  beauty  is  usually  associated  with  the  capacity  to  reproduce  it ;  that  is 
taste,  this  is  art.  Mr.  Curry's  art  was  not  proportionate  to  his  taste ;  it  manifested 
itself  in  the  sweet  music  of  his  flute  and  the  sweeter  strains  of  his  verse ;  the  former 
is  lost  in  the  empty  air,  the  latter  will  float  down  the  river  of  time.  His  poetry  will 
not  be  relished  by  the  mass  ;  it  has  no  pa3ans  of  battle,  no  provocatives  of  mirth,  no 
mockery  of  misery,  no  strokes  of  malice.  It  is  the  song  of  a  religious  soul ;  faith  is 
the  bond  which  links  its  stanzas,  a  faith  that  brings  heaven  near  to  earth  and  man  into 
fellowship  with  angels.  Like  wine  it  will  be  pronounced  better  as  it  grows  older,  not 
because  it  will  improve,  but  because  the  world's  taste  will.  What  he  uttered  we  may 
suppose  was  little  compared  with  what  he  bore  away  with  him  into  heaven,  where  he 
will  take  up  the  harp  that  he  laid  down  too  early  on  earth. 

The  crowning  art  of  our  poet  was  his  life.  That  he  had  the  infirmities  of  man  we 
do  not  deny  ;  that  he  sinned  and  wept ;  that  he  wandered  and  grieved ;  that  ofttimes 
when  he  would  do  good  evil  was  present  with  him;  that  he  saw,  in  retrospecting  his 
life,  many  lost  opportunities  of  usefulness ;  many  wounds  in  kind  hearts  long  stilled  in 
death  that  he  would  gladly  heal ;  many  cold  ears  into  which  he  would  fain  pour  the 
prayer  of  forgiveness ;  many  acts  over  which  he  would  fain  weep  tears  of  blood,  and 
many  emotions  toward  the  Giver  of  all  good,  under  the  pressure  of  which  he  would 
not  so  much  as  lift  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  without  a  mediator.  But  in  this  world  of 
sin,  amid  this  incessant  conflict  with  error,  how  few  have  passed  so  pure  a  life  or 
breathed  so  modest,  so  gentle  a  spirit!  Herein  is  art!  the  best  man  is  the  highest 
artist.  It  is  inspiring  to  see  goodness,  meekness,  long-suffering,  even  amid  occasional 
petulances  and  wrongs,  beaming  from  the  face  of  man,  just  as  it  is  to  see  Divine  wis 
dom,  and  power,  and  goodness,  though  amid  storms  and  earthquakes,  shadowed  from 
the  face  of  the  universe.  It  were  grand  to  stand  in  some  venerable  temple,  all  unim 
paired  by  time,  reflecting  the  light  from  its  diaphanous  walls,  and  presenting  on  all 
Bides  the  memorials  of  ancient  faith;  but  grander,  far,  to  survey  the  divine  temple  of 
u  jrood  life,  hung  round  with  trophies  won  from  earth  and  hell,  hallowed  all  over  with 
the  blood  of  Christ,  and  vocal  with  songs  echoed  from  the  upper  world. 

Mr.  Curry  taught  the  lesson  of  dying  well  no  less  than  of  living  well.  May  we 
not  hope  that  he  dosed  his  eyes  on  earth  in  full  view  of  heaven  and  its  angels !  On 
the  seventeenth  of  February,  1855,  he  was  laid  in  a  humble  grave,  which,  perhaps, 
may  be  sought  for  after  the  monuments  raised  to  our  heroes  shall  have  been  forgotten. 


1830-40.] 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  HOME. 

THE  image  of  a  happier  home, 
Whence  far  my  feet  have  strayed, 

Still  flits  around  me,  as  I  roam, 
Like  joy's  departed  shade  ; 

Though  childhood's  light  of  joy  has  set 

Its  home  is  dear  to  memory  yet ! 

Here — where  the  lapse  of  time  has  swept 

The  forest's  waving  pride, 
And  many  a  summer  light  hath  slept 

Upon  the  green  hill's  side, 
I'll  rest,  while  twilight's  pinions  spread 
Their  shadows  o'er  my  grassy  bed. 

Yon  stars — enthroned  so  high — so  bright, 
Like  gems  on  heaven's  fair  brow, 

Through  all  the  majesty  of  night 
Are  smiling  on  me  now : 

The  promptings  of  poetic  dreams 

Are  floating  on  their  pale,  pure  beams. 

The  muses  of  the  starry  spheres 

High  o'er  me  wend  along, 
With  visions  of  my  infant  years 

Blending  their  choral  song — 
Strewing  with  fancy's  choicest  flowers, 
The  pathway  of  the  tranced  hours. 

They  sing  of  constellations  high, 
The  weary  minstrel's  home  ; 

Of  days  of  sorrow  hastening  by, 
And  bright  ones  yet  to  come — 

Far  in  the  sky,  like  ocean  isles, 

Where  sunny  light  forever  smiles. 

They  sing  of  happy  circles,  bright, 
Where  bards  of  old  have  gone ; 

Where  rounding  ages  of  delight, 
Undimmed,  are  shining  on, — 

And  now,  in  silence,  sleeps  again 

The  breathing  of  their  mystic  strain. 

Leave  me — O  !  leave  me  not  alone, 
While  I  am  sleeping  here ; 


Still  let  that  soft  and  silvery  tone 

Sound  in  my  dreaming  ear ; 
I  would  not  lose  that  strain  divine, 
To  call  earth's  thousand  kingdoms  mine  ! 

It  is  the  sunbeam  of  the  mind, 
Whose  bliss  can  ne'er  be  won, 

Till  the  reviving  soul  shall  find 
Life's  long,  dark  journey  done, — 

Then  peerless  splendor  shall  array 

The  morning  of  that  sinless  day. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

MY  mother  !  though  in  darkness  now 
The  slumber  of  the  grave  is  pass'd, 

Its  gloom  will  soon  be  o'er,  and  thou 
Wilt  break  away  at  last, 

And  dwell  where  neither  grief  nor  pain 

Can  ever  reach  thy  heart  again. 

Sleep  on — the  cold  and  heavy  hand 
Of  death  has  stilled  thy  gentle  breast, 

No  rude  sound  of  this  stormy  land 
Shall  mar  thy  peaceful  rest : 

Undying  guardians  round  thee  close, 

To  count  the  years  of  thy  repose. 

A  day  of  the  far  years  will  break 
On  every  sea  and  every  shore, 

In  whose  bright  morning  thou  shalt  wake 
And  rise,  to  sleep  no  more — 

No  more  to  moulder  in  the  gloom 

And  coldness  of  the  dreary  tomb. 

I  saw  thy  fleeting  life  decay, 

Even  as  a  frail  and  withering  flower, 

And  vainly  strove  to  while  away 
Its  swiftly  closing  hour: 

It  came,  with  many  a  thronging  thought 

Of  anguish  ne'er  again  forgot. 


•IS 


OTWAY    CURliY 


[1830-40. 


In  life's  proud  dreams  I  have  no  part — 
No  share  in  its  resounding  glee ; 

The  musings  of  my  weary  heart 
Are  in  the  grave  with  thee : 

There  have  been  bitter  tears  of  mine 

Above  that  lowly  bed  of  thine. 

It  seems  to  my  fond  memory  now 
As  it  had  been  but  yesterday, 

When  I  was  but  a  child,  and  thou 
Didst  cheer  me  in  my  play ; 

And  in  the  evenings,  still  and  lone, 

Didst  lull  me  with  thy  music-tone. 

And  when  the  twilight  hours  begun, 
And  shining  constellations  came, 

Thou  bad'st  me  know  each  nightly  sun, 
And  con  its  ancient  name  ; 

For  thou  hast  learned  their  lore  and  light 

With  watchings  in  the  tranquil  night. 

And  then  when  leaning  on  thy  knee, 
I  saw  them  in  their  grandeur  rise, 

It  was  a  joy,  in  sooth,  to  me : 
But  now  the  starry  skies 

Seem  holier  grown,  and  doubly  fair, 

Since  thou  art  with  the  angels  there. 

The  stream  of  life  with  hurrying  flow 
Its  course  may  bear  me  swiftly  thro' ; 

I  grieve  not,  for  I  soon  shall  go, 
And  by  thy  side  renew 

The  love  which  here  for  thee  I  bore, 

And  never  leave  thy  presence  more. 


THE  BLOSSOMS  OF  LIFE. 

LIFE  is  like  a  sweeping  river, 
Ceaseless  in  its  seaward  flow — 

On  whose  waves  quick  sunbeams  quiver, 
On  whose  banks  sweet  blossoms  grow- 

Blossoms  quick  to  grow  and  perish ; 

Swift  to  bloom  and  swift  to  fall ; 
Those  we  earliest  learn  to  cherish 

Soonest  pass  beyond  recall. 


Shall  we  lose  them  all  forever? 

Leave  them  on  this  earthly  strand? 
Shall  their  joyous  radiance  never 

Reach  us  in  the  spirit  land  ? 

Soon  the  tide  of  life  upflowing 
Buoyantly  from  time's  dim  shore, 

Where  supernal  flowers  are  growing, 
Shall  meander  evermore. 

There  the  hopes  that  long  have  told  us 
Of  the  climes  beyond  the  tomb, 

While  superber  skies  enfold  us, 
Shall  renew  their  starry  bloom. 

And  the  bloom  that  here  in  sadness 
Faded  from  the  flowers  of  love, 

Shall  with  its  immortal  gladness 
Crown  us  in  the  world  above. 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

'T  is  autumn.    Many,  and  many  a  fleet 
ing  age 

Hath  faded  since  the  primal  morn  of  Time  ; 
And  silently  the  slowly  journeying  years, 
All  redolent  of  countless  seasons,  pass. 

The  spring-time  wakes  in  beauty,  and  is 

fraught 
With  power  to  thrill  the  leaping  pulse  of 

joy, 

And  urge  the  footsteps  of  ideal  hope 
With  flowery  lightness  on.    In  peerless  day 
Resplendent  summer  garlandeth  the  world; 
And  contemplation  through  her  sky  serene 
Ascends  unwearied,  emulous  to  lead, 
To  marshal,  and  to  proudly  panoply 
The  votaries  of  ambition  as  they  rise. 
These  with  their  gilded  pageants  disappear, 
And  vestal  Truth  leads  on  the  silent  hours 
Of   autumn's  lonely  reign.      The  weary 

gales 
Creep  o'er  the  waters,  and  the  sun-brown 

plains, 


1830-40.] 


OTWAY    CURRY. 


Oft  whispering  as  they  pass  a  long  fare 
well 

To  the  frail  emblems  of  the  waning  year, 
The  drooping  foliage,  and  the  dying  leaves. 
This  is  the  time  for  care ;  to  break  the 

spell 

Of  ever-fading  fancy  ;  to  contrast 
The  evanescent  beams  of  earthly  bliss 
With  the  long,  dread  array  of  deepening 

ill. 
The  ills  of  life  are  twofold :  those  which 

fall 

With  lead-like  weight  upon  the  mortal  clay, 
Are  transient  in  their  kind;  for  the  frail 

dust 
Ere  long  shall  blend  with  the  innumerous 

sands, 

And  atoms  of  the  boundless  universe, 
Absorbed  in  the  unfelt,  unconscious  rest 
Of  lifeless,  soulless  matter,  without  change, 
Save  when  the  far-off  period  shall  arrive 
Of  shadowy  nothingness. 

The  deadlier  ills 

That  tinge  existence  with  unbroken  gloom, 
Are  lost  to  melioration,  for  they  hold 
The  ever-during  spirit  in  their  grasp, 
And  in  their  kind  a  withering  permanence. 
To  linger  in  unrest — to  be  endowed 
With  high  aspiring,  endless,  limitless  ! 
On  thought's  unshackled  pinions  to  outride 
The  air-borne  eagles  of  the  Apennines ; 
To  pierce  the  surging  depths  of  endless 

space ; 

To  revel  in  the  stalwart  fervidness 
Of  its  careering  storms !  to  sweep  sublime 
Through  the  far  regions  of  immensity, 
Then   fall  astounded  from   the  dreaming 

height, 
And  wake  in  wildering  durance  :    these 

are  things 
That  well  may  dim  the  sleepless  eyes  of 

care. 
And  thou,  too,  Friendship,  pilgrim-child  of 

heaven ! 
The  balm  that  brings  the  spirit  sweet  relief 


From  the  keen  stings  of  sorrow  and  de 
spair, 

'Tis  thine  to  give ;  yet  the  deep  quietude 
Of  the  bereaving  tomb  hath  shrouded  oft 
The  morning-prime  of  beings  formed  for 
thee. 


THE  ETERNAL  RIVER. 

BEYOND  the  silence,  beyond  the  gloom 
Of  the  vale  of  death  and  the  dreary  tomb, 
Beyond  the  sorrow,  beyond  the  sin 
Of  earthly  ages,  its  waves  begin. 
Along  the  slope  of  its  margin  bright, 
The  groves  rise  up  in  a  land  of  light, 
And  the  shining  flowers  of  the  crystal  rills 
Come  leaping  down  from  the  jasper  hills. 
And  all  the  millions  who  take  their  birth, 
In  the  dark  old  climes  of  the  ancient  earth, 
When  the  strife  and  grief  and  pain  of  the 

past 

Are  all  forgotten,  will  glide  at  last, 
Ay,  crowned  with  glory  and  gladness,  glide 
Along  the  sweep  of  that  radiant  tide ; 
While  all  before  them  and  all  around 
Shall  the    ceaseless  song    of  the    seraph 

sound  : 

Amidst  the  murmuring  fountains 

Of  everlasting  life, 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  bounding  bark, 

With  song  and  gladness  rife, 
Goes  gliding  to  the  palmy  shore 
That  lies  in  sunny  light  before. 

Glide  on,  glide  on,  rejoicing — 

The  glories  of  that  strand 
Are  tinted  by  the  golden  morn 

Of  an  immortal  land, 
Whose  lingering  hope  and  pearly  ray 
Shall  never  fade  nor  fleet  away. 

The  silvery  tide  will  bear  thee 

Amid  the  sound  and  bloom 
Of  many  a  green  and  blessed  isle, 

Whose  shining  banks  illume 


100 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


[1830-40. 


Each  wandering  bark  and  pathway  dim 
Along  the  passing  billow's  brim. 

And  soon  the  winds  shall  waft  thee 

Among  the  groves  that  lave 
The  emerald  of  their  bending  boughs, 

In  life's  eternal  wave, 
And  round  thee  shall  the  music  rise 
Of  happier  worlds  and  calmer  skies. 


KINGDOM  COME.* 

I  DO  not  believe  the  sad  story 

Of  ages  of  sleep  in  the  tomb ; 
I  shnll  pass  far  away  to  the  glory 

And  grandeur  of  Kingdom  Come. 
The  paleness  of  death,  and  its  stillness, 

May  rest  on  my  brow  lor  awhile ; 
And  my  spirit  may  lose  in  its  dullness 

The  splendor  of  hope's  happy  smile ; 

But   the  gloom  of  the  grave  will  be  tran 
sient. 

And  light  as  the  slumbers  of  worth ; 
And  then  I  shall  blend  with  the  ancient 

And  beautiful  forms  of  the  earth. 
Through  the  climes  of  the  sky,  and  the 
bowers 

Of  bliss,  evermore  I  shall  roam, 
Wearing  crowns  of  the  stars  and  the  flowers 

That  glitter  in  Kingdom  Come. 

The  friends  who  have  parted,  before  me, 
From  life's  gloomy  passion  and  pain, 

When  the  shadow  of  death  passes  o'er  me, 
AVill  smile  on  me  fondly  again. 


Their  voices  were  lost  in  the  soundless 
Retreats  of  their  endless  home, 

But  soon  we  shall  meet  in  the  boundless 
Effulgence  of  Kingdom  Come. 


THE  ARMIES  OF  THE  EVE. 

NOT  in  the  golden  morning, 

Shall  faded  forms  return  ; 
For  languidly  and  dimly  then 

The  lights  of  memory  burn : 

Nor  when  the  noon  unfoldeth 

Its  sunny  light  and  smile, 
For  these  unto  their  bright  repose 

The  wandering  spirits  wile : 

But  when  the  stars  are  wending 
Their  radiant  way  on  high, 

And  gentle  winds  are  whispering  back 
The  music  of  the  sky; 

Oh,  then  those  starry  millions 
Their  streaming  banners  weave, 

To  marshal  on  their  wildering  way 
The  Armies  of  the  Eve ; 

The  dim  arid  shadowy  armies 

Of  our  unquiet  dreams, 
Whose  footsteps  brush  the  feathery  fern, 

And  print  the  sleeping  streams. 

We  meet  them  in  the  calmness 
Of  high  and  holier  climes ; 

We  greet  them  with  the  blessed  names 
Of  old  and  happier  times ; 


*  We  are  authentically  informed  that  "  Kingdom  Come 
was  written  while  the  author,  yet  a  young  man,  was  on  a 
vi-it  t«.  the  South.     He  was  working  as  a  journeyman  ca 
penter.     A  fellow-workman  had  become  enamored  of  a 
Southern  beauty,  and  sought  her  hand  in  marriage.     He 
h:id  a  rival.     The  lass  was  partial  to  the  carpenter;  but 
her  father  was  not  decided  in  his  preference  of  the  suitors 
He  was  a  great  lover  of  poetry,  and  he  told  the  rivals  that 
wliiHievwr  wrote  the  best  poem  should  have  the  girl.     The 
carpenter  was  nof-  a  poet.     He  appealed  to  his  fellow-work 


man,  Mr.  Curry,  and  borrowed  u  Kingdom  Come. "  When 
the  father  read  the  poems,  he  was  more  seriously  puzzled 
than  before.  Both  were  so  good  he  could  not  decide  be 
tween  them.  The  carpenter  thought  there  was  something 
familiar  in  his  rival's  lines,  and  so  he  told  Mr.  Curry,  who 
urged  him  to  obtain  a  copy.  By  stratagem  he  succeeded  : 
and  Mr.  Curry  detected  in  the  rival  poem  a  plagiarism 
from  Mrs.  Hemans.  The  theft  was  exposed ;  and  of  course 
the  carpenter  won  the  girl.  After  the  knot  was  tied,  he 
V>ld  the  joke.—  Genius  of  the  West,  July,  1855. 


1830-40.] 


OTWAY    CURRY. 


101 


And,  marching  in  the  star-light 

Above  the  sleeping  dust, 
They  freshen  all  the  fountain-springs 

Of  our  undying  trust. 

Around  our  every  pathway 
In  beauteous  ranks  they  roam, 

To  guide  us  to  the  dreamy  rest 
Of  our  Eternal  Home. 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 

ROUND  me  is  the  silent  night — 
Starry  heavens  are  in  my  sight- 
In  the  gloom  of  earth  I  stand, 
Longing  for  the  Better  Land. 

Names  of  many  an  olden  year 
Linger  in  my  listening  ear — 
Names  of  those  that  now,  I  ween, 
In  the  Better  Land  are  seen. 

There  shall  many  pilgrims  meet — 
There  shall  many  mourners  greet 
Lost  ones,  parted  long  before, 
Angels  of  the  Better  Shore. 

There  no  sound  of  grieving  word 
Shall  be  ever,  ever  heard — 
Sounds  of  joy  and  love  alone 
In  the  Better  Land  are  known. 

Voyager  on  the  tide  of  time, 
Toiling  for  the  Better  Clime, 
Thither  I  am  speeding  fast, 
Where  the  toils  of  time  are  past. 

Calmly  leaving  far  behind 
Earth's  dark  memories,  let  me  find 
Loving  smile  and  greeting  hand, 
Joyful  in  the  Better  Land. 

Savior  !  let  the  falling  tear 
Soon  forever  disappear : 
Guide  me,  weary  and  oppress'd, 
Safely  to  the  Land  of  Rest. 


THE  GOINGS  FORTH  OF  GOD. 

GOD  walketh  on  the  earth.     The  purl 
ing  rills 
And  mightier  streams  before  him  glance 

away, 

Rejoicing  in  his  presence.  On  the  plains, 
And  spangled  fields,  and  in  the  mazy  vales, 
The  living  throngs  of  earth  before  Him  fall 
With  thankful  hymns,  receiving  from  his 

hand 

Immortal  life  and  gladness.  Clothed  upon 
With  burning  crowns  the  mountain-heralds 

stand, 

Proclaiming  to  the  blossoming  wilderness 
The  brightness  of  his  coming,  and  the  power 
Of  Him  who  ever  liveth,  all  in  all ! 

God  walketh  on  the  ocean.  Brilliantly 
The  glassy  waters  mirror  back  His  smiles. 
The  surging  billows  and  the  gamboling 

storms 
Come  crouching  to  His  feet.     The  hoary 

deep 

And  the  green,  gorgeous  islands  offer  up 
The  tribute  of  their  treasures — pearls,  and 

shells, 
And   crown-like  drapery  of  the   dashing 

foam. 

And  solemnly  the  tesselated  halls, 
And  coral  domes  of  mansions  in  the  depths, 
And  gardens  of  the  golden-sanded  sea, 
Blend,  with  the  anthems  of  the  chiming 

waves, 

Their  alleluias  unto  Him  who  rules 
The  invisible  armies  of  eternity. 

God  journey eth  in  the  sky.  From  sun 
to  sun, 

From  star  to  star,  the  living  lightnings  flash ; 

And  pealing  thunders  through  all  space 
proclaim 

The  goings  forth  of  Him  whose  potent  arm 

Perpetuates  existence,  or  destroys. 

From  depths  unknown,  unsearchable,  pro 
found, 


102 


O  T  W  A  Y    CURRY. 


[1830-40. 


Forth   rush   the  wandering  comets  ;    girt 

with  flames 
They  blend,  in  order  true,  with  marshaling 

hosts 
Of  starry   worshipers.      The  unhallowed 

orbs 

Of  earth-born  fire,  that  cleave  the  hazy  air, 
Blanched  by  the  flood  of  uncreated  light, 
Fly  with  the  fleeting  winds  and  misty  clouds 
Back  to  their  homes,  and  deep  in  darkness 

lie. 

God  journeyeth  in  the  heavens.     Reful 
gent  stars, 

And  glittering  crowns  of  prostrate  Sera 
phim 

Emboss  his  burning  path.    Around  him  fall 
Dread  powers,  dominions,  hosts,  and  kingly 

thrones. 

Angels  of  God — adoring  millions — join 
With  spirits  pure,  redeemed  from  distant 

worlds, 
In   choral   songs   of    praise:    "Thee   we 

adore, 

For  Thou  art  mighty.  Everlasting  spheres 
Of  light  and  glory  in  thy  presence  wait. 
Time,  space,  life,  light,  dominion,  majesty 
Truth,  wisdom — all  are  thine,  Jehovah 

Thou 
First,  last,  supreme,  eternal  Potentate ! " 


THE  GREAT  HEREAFTER. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think,  when  struggling 

The  goal  of  life  to  win, 
That  just  beyond  the  shores  of  time 

The  better  days  begin. 

When  through  the  nameless  ages 

I  cast  my  longing  eyes, 
Before  me,  like  a  boundless  sea, 

The  Great  Hereafter  lies. 


Along  its  brimming  bosom 
Perpetual  summer  smiles, 

And  gathers,  like  a  golden  robe, 
Around  the  emerald  isles. 

There  in  the  blue  long  distance, 
By  lulling  breezes  fanned, 

I  seem  to  see  the  flowering  groves 
Of  old  Beulah's  land. 

And  far  beyond  the  islands 
That  gem  the  wave  serene, 

The  image  of  the  cloudless  shore 
Of  holy  Heaven  is  seen. 

Unto  the  Great  Hereafter — 
Aforetime  dim  and  dark — 

I  freely  now  and  gladly,  give 
Of  life  the  wandering  bark. 

And  in  the  far-off  haven, 

When  shadowy  seas  are  passed, 
By  angel  hands  its  quivering  sails 

Shall  all  be  furled  at  last ! 


LINES  OF  THE  LIFE  TO  COME. 

spirit  seeks  a  far-off  clime, 
All  beautiful  and  pure, 
Where  living  light  and  sinless  time, 
Forevermore  endure. 

We  spend  our  long  and  weary  hours 

In  dreaming  of  that  shore, 
Where  all  those  perished  hopes  of  ours 

Have  swiftly  gone  before. 

And  do  you  yearn  and  strive  in  vain 
To  rend  the  enshrouding  pall, 

That  round  us,  in  this  life  of  pain, 
Lies  like  a  dungeon  wall  ? 

Yes !  for  it  clogs  our  halting  thought, 
And  dims  our  feeble  light ; — 

How  hardly  is  our  spirit  taught 
To  shape  its  upward  flight. 


1830-40.] 


OTWAY    CURRY. 


103 


We  strive  with  earthly  im  agings 

To  reach  and  understand 
The  wondrous  and  the  fearful  things 

Of  an  Eternal  Land. 

We  talk  of  amaranthine  bowers, 

And  living  groves  of  palm, 
Of  starry  crowns,  and  fadeless  flowers, 

Arid  skies  forever  calm. 

We  talk  of  wings  and  raiment  white, 

And  pillared  thrones  of  gold, 
And  cities  built  of  jewels  bright, 

Far  in  the  heavens,  of  old. 

Are  these  things  worse  than  fancy's  play  ? 

Are  they,  in  very  deed, 
The  free  soul's  guerdon,  far  away, 

Its  everlasting  meed  ? 

Or  shall  the  spirit,  in  its  flight 

Beyond  the  stars  sublime, 
See  nothing  but  the  radiance  white 

Of  never-ending  time  ? 

Shall  things  material  change  again, 

And  wholly  be  forgot  ? 
And  round  us  only  God  remain, 

A  universe  of  thought? 

We  know  not  well — we  cannot  know, 
Our  reason's  glimmering  light 

Can  nothing  but  the  darkness  show 
Of  our  surrounding  night. 

But  soon  the  doubt,  and  toil,  and  strife, 

Of  earth  shall  all  be  done, 
And  knowledge  of  our  endless  life 

Be  in  a  moment  won. 


CHASIDINE. 

WALKED  she  for  a  few  brief  years 
In  a  land  of  toil  and  tears, 
With  a  patient  hope  preparing 
For  the  holiest  spheres. 


Never  with  the  pure  one  strove 
Spirit  of  a  sinful  love, 
For  her  soul  was  filled  with  dreamings 
Of  its  home  above. 

Joyed  she  heavenly  seed  to  sow, 
In  the  midst  of  tears  and  woe, 
Growing  oft,  as  oft  the  flowers 
In  the  rains  do  grow. 

Stood  she  near  the  nightly  gloom 
Of  the  slumber  of  the  tomb, 
Planting  hopes  that  shall  not  wither 
Till  the  morning  come. 

Sung  she  with  melodious  tongue, 
Heaving  human  hearts  among, 
Happy  songs,  like  those  in  Eden, 
By  the  sinless  sung. 

But  she  might  not  always  sing, 
Where  of  time  the  travailing  wing 
Wears  away  and  renders  soundless 
Each  silvery  string. 

Fainter  grew  the  lingering  lay, 
As  the  gliding  years  gave  way, 
Till  the  pale  and  fragile  singer 
Could  no   longer  stay. 

Nevermore  the  grief  to  share 
Which  the  mortal  millions  bear, 
She  has  entered  where  the  weary 
Cease  from  toil  and  care. 

Gathered  to  the  viewless  coast — 
Numbered  with  the  shining  host, 
Vain  is  every  earthly  sorrow 
For  the  early  lost. 

Words  of  long  and  loving  cheer 
Left  she  for  my  sad  soul  here. 
I  shall  in  the  bright  world  coming, 
By  her  side  appear. 

When  the  dimless  noon  shall  shine 
On  immortal  eyes  of  mine, 
I  shall  see  her  in  her  beauty, 
In  the  light  divine. 


104 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


[1830-40. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  "LORE  OF  THE 
PAST."* 

EARTH  has  no  voice  of  solemn-sounding 

chime 
But  wakes  some  memory  of  the  brows  that 

wore 

The  crowning  impress  of  immortal  thought, 
And  eloquent  lips,  whose  thrilling  tones 

were  caught 
By  listening  nations ;  caught  from  age  to 

age, 

And  joyfully  on  many  a  during  page 
Engraven  all :  through  every  change  un- 

quelled 

Their  spirit  strove,  unceasingly  impelled 
By  the  quick  impulse  of  unsleeping  zeal 
To  grasp  the  hoary  infinite, — to  unseal 
The  hidden  mysteries  of  eternal  space ; 
The  footsteps  of  Omnipotence  to  trace 

Through  untold  periods,  back 
Along  that  shadowy  and  eternal  track, 
Where  first  the  grand  and  solemn  music 

rang 
Of  worlds  that  from  the  womb  of  primal 

chaos  sprang. 

The  wondrous  laws  that  force 
The  winging  winds  along  their  viewless 

course ; 
That  prompt  the  furrows  of  the  teeming 

field 

The  treasures  of  the  waving  corn  to  yield ; 
And,  when  the  summer   sunshine   inter 
weaves 

Its  golden  hues  among  the  forest  leaves, 
Suspend  the  fruitage  and  the  bloomy  gem 
In    quivering   brightness   on   the   pensile 

stems ; 

That  strew  with  glittering  ore  the  caves 
profound, 


*  A  poem  delivered  before  the  Union  Literary  Society  of 
Hanover  College,  Indiana,  at  its  Fifth  Anniversary,  Sep 
tember,  1837— published  by  the  Society— dedicated  by  the 
author  to  William  D.  Gallagher,  "  as  a  memento  of  early 
and  enduring  friendship." 


And  jeweled  mansions  of  the  under  ground, 
And  quickening  breath  to  myriad  tribes 

bestow, 

Whose  life  and  motion  in  the  regions  grow, 
Whereon  the  waves  of  time  like  eddying 

waters  flow : 

All,  all  are  mingled  in  that  changeful  lore, 
Whose  fame  is  deathless,  but  whose  hope 

is  o'er : — 

Fond  hope,  to  purify  the  toiling  mind 
And  work  the  lasting  weal  of  human  kind, 
Forgetful  of  the  ills  and  wrongs  that  wind 
And  clog  the  spirit  in  its  upward  flight — 
Forgetful  that  the  unassisted  might 
Of  science  never  yet  on  earthly  ground 
The  priceless  meed  of  happiness  hath  found. 

In  other  days  there  came 
A  Herald  to  the  sons  of  men,  whose  name 
Was  sung  by  seraphs  with  their  harps  of 

gold 

In  the  high  heavens  of  old. 
He  gave  to  life  a  bairn  for  all  its  ills — 
He  soothed  the  mourner  with  his  voice 

divine ; 
And  there  was  gladness  in  the  fountain 

rills, 
And  peerless  beauty  on  the  rocky  hills 

Of  palmy  Palestine. 

He  taught  the  struggling  toiler  for  the  prize 
Of  undecaying  happiness,  above 
The  groveling  strife  of  passion  to  arise, 
And  with  the  angel-ministry  of  love, 
And  the  bland  light  of  virtue  to  adorn 
The  pathway  of  the  traveler  to  that  bourn 
Where  Science,  radiant  as  the  early  dawn, 
Reposes  with  her  starred  and   heavenly 

plumage  on. 

Through  every  land  and  sea, 
Even  as  the  unregarded  breezes  flee, 
That  precept  of  immortal  truth  was  borne 

Amidst  the  pride  and  scorn 
And  turmoil  of  a  world  that  would  not  learn : 
A  world  whose  every  clime  Ambition  stern 


1830-40.] 


OTWAY    CURRY. 


105 


And  fierce  Intolerance,  with  alternate  sway 
Do  desolate  alway. 

The  loud  and  sullen  peal 
Of  hoarse  artillery,  and  the  frequent  clang 
Of  echoing  trump  and  keenly-glancing  steel 
Came  o'er  the  hill,  where  freedom's  pil 
grims  sang 
Their  hymn  of  gladness  in  the  olden  time 

And  to  their  forest  clime 
Proclaimed  the  onset  of  the  invading  horde ; 
And  instant   from  the  hills   and  valleys 

poured 
Fast  hurrying  ranks  of  freedom's  chivalry, 

Unto  the  dread  melee, 
Where  flashing  sword  and  serried  bayonet 
Along  stern  lines  in  clashing  conflict  met. 

And  many  a  streamlet  shore, 
And  many  a  curdling  wave  and  smoking 

plain 
Grew  darkly  crimson,  while  the  sprinkling 

gore 

Came  down  like  summer  rain, 
And  the  harsh  din  of  stormy  battle  clove 
The  overarching  concave,  in  whose  light 
The  blinded  minions  of  ambition  strove 

To  whelm  in  gloomiest  night 
The  last  bright  star  of  hope,  whose  glim 
mering  ray 

Gave  promise  to  the  world  of  freedom's 
rising  day. 

And  far-off  climes  beheld, 
In  the  dark  days  of  toil,  that  hope  forlorn 
Awhile  with  fierce  intolerance  overborne. 
Then,  marshaled  and  resistlessly  impelled 
By  the  strong  hand  of  heaven,  their  bright 

array, 

Like  the  on-rushing  tempest,  swept  away 
Oppression's   minions   to    their   doom   of 

shame, 

While  hymns  of  victory  clave 
The  broad  expanses  of  the  world,  and  gave 
Unto  bright  glory's  scroll  its  brightest  name, 
And  to  the  firmament  a  new-born  star  of 

fame. 


How  calm,  how  holy  is  the  undreaming 

sleep 
Of  freedom's  martyrs  when  their  homes 

are  won ; 

And  hallowed  are  the  gory  graves  that  keep 
The  cerements  of  the  patriot  dust  which 

down 

In  living  hope  is  laid, 
Beneath   the  unfolded   splendor  and   the 

shade 
Of  star-lit  banners  and  bright  eagle-wings, 

Whose  brilliant  woof  upsprings, 
Where   late   the   lightning  of  the   battle 

played ; 
While  far  aloft  the  sulphurous  mists  that 

rise 
Seem  clinging  in  the  clouds  like  flowers  of 

sacrifice. 

Then  turn  thee  to  the  past- 
Sublime,  immortal,  vast ! 
Lorn  garner  of  the  wrecks  that  evermore 
Forth  from  the  windings  of  the  shadowy 

shore 

Of  present  life  are  cast. 
Among  its   fanes   and   phantom    temples 

walk 
Till  all  its  frowning   heroes   round   thee 

stalk, 

Till  fitfully  its  dream-like  melodies 
Come  chiming  like  the  sound  of  whispering 

seas, 

And  its  unfading  memories,  deeply  fraught 
With  all  life's  lessons,  meet  thy  spirit's 

thought. 
There  win  that   wisdom  which   alone   is 

true; 

Which  lives  forever  in  the  chastening  view 
Of  sinless  virtue  and  of  infinite  love — 
Erst  dimly  symboled  by  the  elysian  dove. 
So  shall  a  holier  life-spring,  in  thy  heart 
Like  murmuring  waters,  wake ;  and  thou 

shalt  go 
Forth  to  perform  thy  brief  and  changeful 

part 
In  this  wide  world  of  woe. 


106 


OTWAY   CURRY. 


[1830-40. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

MILLIONS  of  ages  gone, 
Didst  thou  survive,  in  thy  enthroned  place, 
Amidst  the  assemblies  of  the  starry  race, 

Still  shining  on — and  on. 

And  even  in  earthly  time 
Thy  parting  beams  their  olden  radiance 

wore, 
And  greeted,  from  the  dim  cerulean  shore, 

The  old  Chaldean  clime. 

Sages  and  poets,  strong 
To  rise  and  walk  the  waveless  firmament, 
Gladly  to  thee  their  richest  offerings  sent, 

Of  eloquence  and  song. 

But  thy  far  flowing  light, 
By  time's  mysterious  shadows  overcast, 
Strangely  and  dimly  faded  at  the  last, 

Into  a  nameless  night. 

Along  the  expanse  serene, 
Of  clust'ry  arch  and  constellated  zone, 
With  orbed  sands  of  tremulous  gold  o'er- 
strown, 

No  more  canst  thou  be  seen. 

Say  whither  wand'rest  thou  ? 
Do  unseen  heavens  thy  distant  path  illume? 
Or  press  the  shades  of  everlasting  gloom 

Darkly  upon  thee  now  ? 

Around  thee,  far  away, 
The  hazy  ranks  of  multitudinous  spheres, 
Perchance,  are  gathering  to  prolong  the 
years 

Of  thy  unwilling  stay. 

Sadly  our  thoughts  rehearse 
The  story  of  thy  wild  and  wondrous  flight 
Thro'  the  deep  deserts  of  the  ancient  night 

And  far-off  universe. 

We  call — we  call  thee  back, 
And  suns  of  many  a  constellation  bright, 
Shall  weave  the  waves  of  tln'ir  illuming  ligh 

O'er  thy  returning  track. 


ADJURATION. 

I  ADJURE  thee — I  adjure  thee, 

By  the  memory  of  the  past, 
Think  not  thou  of  rest  or  respite 

From  the  burden  on  thee  cast. 
Quietude  of  dreamless  slumber, 

Hope  of  cloudless  years,  to  thee 
Banned  and  banished  and  forbidden, 

Shall  but  names  ideal  be. 

Gone  is  that  bright  eve  forever 

In  the  which  we  lingered  long, 
Walking  green  suburban  gardens, 

Severed  from  the  city's  throng — 
When  beneath  our  footsteps  bended 

Flowerets  of  the  early  year, 
And  the  sunset's  falling  crimson 

Faintly  touched  the  young  leaves  near. 

Then  amidst  the  lonely  music 

Of  the  gales  that  round  us  stirred, 
Unforgotten  words  were  spoken, 

Now  unsyllabled,  unheard. 
And  we  felt  that  we  thereafter 

To  a  heavier  life  should  wake — 
Wake  on  many  a  sad  to-morrow 

Which  might  better  never  break. 

Think'st  thou  ever — when  the  sunshine 

Mocks  thee  with  its  setting  glow — 
Thinkest  thou  of  that  sad  sunset, 

Which  a  morning  could  not  know  ? 
Aye — thou  canst  not  but  remember: 

And  in  silence  thou  wilt  grieve 
At  the  never-fading  memory 

Of  that  unreturning  eve. 

As  the  lingering  seasons  pass  thee 

As  the  dim  days  rise  and  set, 
Ever  shall  they  pass  and  leave  thee 

Striving  vainly  to  forget. 
In  thy  thought  strong  fate  forever 

Shall  compel  a  place  for  me — 
In  thy  soul's  most  secret  presence 

Still  unbidden  will  I  be. 


1830-40.]                                              OT  WAY  CURRY.                                                         107 

An  inmate  of  the  ocean  graves, 

TO  A  MIDNIGHT  PHANTOM. 

Or  of  the  heavens  sublime  ? 

PALE,  melancholy  one, 
Why  art  thou  lingering  here, 
Memorial  of  dark  ages  gone, 

[s  thy  mysterious  place  of  rest 
The  eternal  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Or  the  dim  shores  of  time? 

Herald  of  darkness  near  ? 

Hast  thou  forever  won 

Thou  stand'st  immortal,  undefined  — 

A  high  and  glorious  name, 

Even  thou,  the  unknown,  the  strange,  the 

And  proudly  grasped  and  girdled  on 

wild, 

The  panoply  of  fame  ? 

Spell-word  of  mortal  fear. 

Or  wanderest  thou  on  weary  wing, 

Thou  art  a  shadowy  form, 

A  lonely  and  a  nameless  thing, 

A  dream-like  thing  of  air  ; 

Unchangingly  the  same  ? 

My  very  sighs  thy  robes  deform, 

Thou  answerest  not.     The  sealed 

So  frail,  so  passing  fair  ; 

And  hidden  things  that  lie 

Thy  crown  is  of  the  fabled  gems, 

Beyond  the  grave,  are  unrevealed, 

The  bright  ephemeral  diadems 

Unseen  by  mortal  eye. 

That  unseen  spirits  wear. 

Thy  dreamy  home  is  all  unknown, 

For  spirits  freed  by  death  alone 

Thou  hast  revealed  to  me 

L                                                           * 

May  win  the  viewless  sky. 

The  lore  of  phantom  song, 

With  thy  wild,  fearful  melody, 

Chiming  the  whole  night  long 

—  *  — 

Forebodings  of  untimely  doom, 

Of  sorrowing  years  and  dying  gloom, 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR.* 

And  unrequited  wrong. 

THE  year  has  reached  its  evening  time, 

Through  all  the  dreary  night, 

And  well  its  closing  gloom 

Thine  icy  hands,  that  now 

May  warn  us  of  the  lonely  night 

Send  to  the  brain  their  maddening  blight, 

That  gathers  round  the  tomb. 

Have  pressed  upon  my  brow  — 
My  frenzied  thoughts  all  wildly  blend 
With  spell-wrought  shapes  that  round  me 
wend 

But  many  a  distant  year  and  age 
May  slowly  come  and  go, 
Before  the  sleepers  of  the  grave 

Or  down  in  mockery  bow. 

Another  spring-time  know. 

And  yet,  beyond  the  gloomy  vale, 

Away,  pale  form,  away  — 

Where  death's  dark  river  flows, 

The  break  of  morn  is  nigh, 

On  sunniest  shores  our  faith  is  fixed  — 

And  far  and  dim,  beyond  the  day, 

Our  deathless  hopes  repose. 

The  eternal  night-glooms  lie  : 

Art  thou  a  dweller  in  the  dread 

We  trust  that  when  the  night  of  time 

Assembly  of  the  mouldering  dead, 

Shall  into  morning  break, 

Or  in  the  worlds  on  high  ? 

We  shall,  from  long  and  heavy  sleep, 

With  song  and  gladness  wake. 

Art  thou  of  the  blue  waves, 

Or  of  yon  starry  clime  — 

*  Now  first  published. 

108                                                       OT  WAY    CURRY.                                               [1830-40. 

"And  —  the  swift  wand,  following  fast  — 

AAVEN.* 

Full  before  thy  watching  eye, 

AAVEN  of  the  uncounted  years  — 

All  the  myriads  of  the  past, 

Aaven  of  the  sleepless  eye  — 

Age  by  age  shall  pass  thee  by. 

Wanderer  of  the  uncounted  years  — 

Hither  from  the  land  of  gloom, 

Outcast  of  the  earth  and  sky  — 

Lo  !  the  countless  sleepers  come." 

Worn  of  life  and  weary  grown, 
Turned  him  to  the  shore  unknown. 

As  the  meteoric  glow 
Cleaves  the  curtaining  night  aslant, 

Rose  before  him,  stern  and  stark, 

Wildly  gleaming  to  and  fro, 

One  with  adamantine  wand  — 

Waved  the  wand  of  adamant  — 

Warder  of  the  portal  dark  — 

And  the  buried  ages  came, 

Portal  of  the  unknown  land  : 

With  their  hosts  of  every  name. 

And  the  warder,  weird  and  grim, 
Barred  the  portal,  dusk  and  dun. 

Swiftly  came,  and  glided  on, 
Sceptered  hand  and  laureled  brow  — 

"  Wanded  warder,  list  to  me  ! 

Glided  many  a  queenly  one, 

'Tis  a  weary  thing  to  roam 

Nameless  in  the  wide  world  now. 

O'er  the  earth  and  o'er  the  sea, 

Murmured  Aaven,  in  his  fear, 

Tarrying  till  the  Master  come. 

"  Never  will  the  lost  appear  !  " 

From  the  earth  and  from  the  sea, 
Turn  my  wandering  steps  to  thee. 

From  the  long  and  silent  sleep 
Of  remotest  ages  gone  — 

"  Lead  me  through  the  sunless  land, 

Following  fast  the  wand's  wild  sweep, 

And  the  sable  cities  vast, 

"Came  the  long  ranks  filing  on  — 

Where  the  silent  myriads  stand  — 

Passed  full  many  a  thronging  host  — 

Myriads  of  the  ages  past. 

Carne  not  still  the  loved,  the  lost. 

Swift  along  the  shadowy  coast, 
Speed  me  —  speed  me  to  the  lost  !  " 

Sudden,  on  the  watcher's  sight, 
Broke,  amidst  the  phantom  throng, 

"Never,"  said  the  warder  grim, 

Beauteous  form  of  maiden  bright, 

"  Till  the  gathering  night  of  time 

Gliding  pensively  along  : 

Shalt  thou  pass  the  portal  dim  — 

And  the  wondering  warder's  hand 

Portal  of  the  sunless  clime. 

Stilled  the  adamantine  wand. 

Ever,  in  thy  ceaseless  quest, 

Wildly,  as  the  vision  came, 

Wander,  restless,  after  rest. 

Aaven  from  the  warder  sprang  ; 

"But  before  thy  long  and  drear 
Pilgrimage  of  earth  and  main. 

And  the  sound  of  Miriam's  name 
Through  the  world  of  shadows  rang. 

O                 O 

Wouldst  thou  have  the  lost  appear 

Aaven,  to  his  sad  heart  there, 

1  i 

To  thy  longing  eyes  again? 

Clasped  alone  the  lifeless  air. 

Reverently  approach,  and  stand 

Fell  the  adamantine  wand  — 

Close  beside  my  waving  wand. 

Reeled  the  portal,  dusk  and  dim  — 

Faded  far  the  Unknown  Land, 

*  Written  in  compliance  to  a  wish  expressed  by  Rebecca 

And  the  wanded  warder  grim  :  — 

S.  Nichols,  that  Mr.  Curry  would  render  into  verse  the 

Miriam  fled  from  earthly  shore, 

story  of  Agrippa,  the  Magician,  and  the  Wandering  Jew. 

And  from  Aaven,  evermore. 

JOHN  B.  DILLON. 


JOHN  BROWN  DILLON  is  a  native  of  Brooke  county,  Virginia.  While  he  was  an 
infant  his  father  removed  to  Belmont  county,  Ohio.  There  John  had  the  opportunites 
of  education  which  a  country  school,  at  winter  sessions  afforded,  until  he  had  learned 
what  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic  are.  But  he  was  only  nine  years  of  age  when  his 
father  died.  He  was  then  compelled  to  earn  his  own  livelihood,  and  he  returned  to 
the  county  of  his  nativity,  in  Virginia,  and  apprenticed  himself  to  a  printer  at  Charles 
ton.  At  nineteen  years  of  age,  with  no  fortune  but  his  compositor's  rule  and  a  good 
knowledge  of  its  use,  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  seeking  work. 

While  an  apprentice  he  had  cultivated  a  natural  taste  for  poetry,  and  had  occasion 
ally  contributed  verses  to  the  newspapers  for  which  he  set  type.  In  1826  he  contrib 
uted  a  poem  to  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  which  immediately  gave  him  a  prominent 
position  as  a  poet,  among  the  young  men  who  then  wooed  the  Muse  in  the  Queen 
City.  It  was  "The  Burial  of  the  Beautiful." 

In  1827  Mr.  Dillon  contributed  occasionally  to  Flint's  Western  Review,  and  he 
wrote  "The  Orphan's  Lament"  for  The  Western  Souvenir  in  1829.  In  December, 
1831,  he  formed  a  partnership  with  William  D.  Gallagher  for  the  composition  of  a 
New  Year's  Lay  for  the  carrier  of  the  Cincinnati  Mirror.  The  lines  on  "The 
Funeral  of  the  Year"  are  from  that  Lay. 

In  1834  Mr.  Dillon  went  from  Cincinnati  to  Logansport,  Indiana.  There,  while 
editing  a  newspaper,  and  often  "working  at  case,"  he  continued  studies  which  he  had 
begun  in  Cincinnati ;  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  began  the  practice  of  law.  He  had, 
however,  more  love  for  literature  than  for  law,  though  he  rarely  exercised  his  poetic 
abilities.  Local  history  deeply  interested  him,  and  after  a  few  preliminary  studies  he 
determined  to  write  "A  History  of  Indiana."  In  1842  he  published  a  small  volume 
of  "Historical  Notes."  In  1845  he  was  elected  State  Librarian  of  Indiana,  an  office 
which  he  held  with  credit  to  himself  and  profit  to  the  State  for  several  terms.  He 
has  since  been  actively  identified  with  popular  education  in  Indiana,  has  been  a  useful 
officer  of  one  or  more  of  the  benevolent  institutions,  and  for  a  number  of  years  was 
the  Secretary  of  the  State  Board  of  Agriculture. 

Meantime  his  historical  studies  were  carefully  pursued,  and  in  1859  the  result  of 
them  was  given  to  the  world,  by  Bingham  and  Doughty,  publishers,  Indianapolis,  in 
an  octavo  volume  of  636  pages,  which  is  called  "A  History  of  Indiana,"  but  which 
comprehends  a  history  of  the  discovery,  settlement,  and  civil  and  military  affairs  of 
the  North- West  Territory,  as  well  as  a  general  view  of  the  progress  of  public  affairs 
in  the  State  of  Indiana,  from  1816  to  1856. 

Mr.  Dillon  is  now  the  Secretary  of  the  Indiana  Historical  Society.  To  the  duties 
of  that  post  he  gives  attention  with  commendable  zeal,  which  cannot  fail  to  make  the 
Library  of  the  Society  valuable  to  every  student  of  Western  History. 

(  109  ) 


110 


JOHN   B.    DILLON. 


[1830-40. 


THE  PROPHET'S  DREAM. 

WHERE    fell    the   palm-tree's    clustering 
shade, 

The  aged  and  weary  prophet  lay, 
And  o'er  his  fevered  temples  played 

The  freshness  of  the  primal  day. 
He  slept — and  on  his  spirit  fell 

A  vision  of  the  flight  of  time — 
He  saw  upon  the  future  dwell 

A  dark'ning  cloud  of  sin  and  crime. 

Gone  were  the  spirits  that  lingered  near 

The  world  in  its  early  bloom, 
And  hope's  pure   light,  that  was  wont  to 

cheer, 

Grew  dim  in  the  gathering  gloom ; 
And  love  from  earth  was  hurl'd — 
And  a  mandate  came, 
In  a  breath  of  flame, 
To  scourge  a  sinful  world. 

"  Let  the  sword  go  forth !  " — and  forth  it 

went, 
And  gleamed  o'er  tower  and  battlement, 

And  glanced  in  the  tented  field ; 
And  helms   were  cleft,  and  shields  were 

broke, 
And  breasts  were  bared  to  the  battle-stroke, 

Only  in  death  to  yield : 
The  warriors  met — but  not  to  part — 

And  the  sun  glared  redly  on  the  scene ; 
And  the  broken  sword,  and  the  trampled 

heart, 
Might  tell  where  the  battle-steed  had 

been. 

Dark  arid  still,  by  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
L:tv    mouldering  heaps  of  slaughtered 

men — 

The  fountain  of  a  sanguine  stream — 
Kanh  drank  the  blood  of  her  offspring 
then. 

"  Go  forth  disease !  " — and  at  the  word, 
The  groans  of  a  stricken  world  were  heard, 
And  the  voice  of  woe  rose  high — 


And  myriads  yielded  up  their  breath, 
As  the  haggard  form  of  the  tyrant  death 

On  the  rotting  breeze  swept  by. 
And  the  lovely  green  that  overspread 

The  world  in  its  guiltless  day, 
Grew    as    deeply    dark,    and    sear'd,    and 
dead, 

As  the  parched  earth,  where  it  lay. 
With  lifeless  limbs  the  livid  trees 

Stood  locked  in  the  arms  of  death, 
Save  one,  that  still  to  the  withering  breeze 

Could  lend  its  poisonous  breath. 
Deeply  the  world,  in  that  drear  time, 
Felt  the  deadly  curse  of  sin  and  crime. 

"  Famine  go  forth  ! " — and  at  the  name, 

Rose  a  feeble  shriek,  and  a  fearful  laugh, 
And  a  tottering,  fleshless  monster  came, 

The  lingering  stream  of  life  to  quaff — 
And  he  stalk'd  o'er  the  earth,  and  the  lan 
guid  crowds 
Were  crush'd  to  the  dust  in  their  mildew'd 

shrouds : 

Then  rose  the  last  of  human  groans, 
As  the  shriveled  skin  hung  loose  on  the 

bones, 

And  the  stream  of  life  was  gone. 
And  death  expired  on  that  awful  day, 
Where  his  slaughtered  millions  round  him 

lay, 
For  his  fearful  task  was  done. 

Old  earth  was  lone — for  her  offspring  lay 
Mouldering  dark  on  her  bosom  of  clay — 

All  tones  of  life  were  hushed — 
And  the  brazen  tombs  of  sepulchered  men, 
That  battled  the  might  of  time  till  then, 

Atom  by  atom  were  crushed — 
And  desolate  round  in  its  orbit  whirl'd 
The  peopleless  wreck  of  a  worn-out  world. 
#**#*## 

The  dreamer  woke,  and  the  glorious  day 
Broke  calmly  on  his  dream — 

And  the  joyous  birds  from  each  green  spray 
Carol'd  their  morning  hymn — 


1830-40.] 


JOHN    B.   DILLON 


Ill 


The  earth  still  moved  in  beauty  there, 
With  its  clustering  groves  and  emerald 

plains, 
And  the  pure  breeze  bore  the  Prophet's 

prayer 

To  the  throne  where  the  Rock  of  Ages 
reigns. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

WHERE  shall  the  dead,  and  the  beautiful, 

sleep  ? 
In  the  vale  where  the  willow  and  cypress 

weep ; 
Where  the  wind  of  the  West  breathes  its 

softest  sigh  ; 

Where  the  silvery  stream  is  flowing  nigh, 
And  the  pure,  clear  drops  of   its  rising 

sprays 
Glitter    like   gems   in  the   bright  moon's 

rays — 
Where  the  sun's  warm  smile  may  never 

dispel 
Night's   tears  o'er  the  form  we  loved  so 

well — 
In  the  vale  where  the  sparkling  waters 

flow  ; 

Where  the  fairest,  earliest  violets  grow ; 
Where  the  sky  and  the  earth  are  softly  fair; 
Bury  her  there — bury  her  there  ! 

Where  shall  the  dead,  and  the  beautiful, 
sleep  ? 

Where  wild  flowers  bloom  in  the  valley 
deep ; 

Where  the  sweet  robes  of  spring  may  soft 
ly  rest, 

In  purity,  over  the  sleeper's  breast: 

Where  is  heard  the  voice  of  the  sinless 
dove, 

Breathing  notes  of  deep  and  undying  love  ; 

Where  no  column  proud  in  the  sun  may 
glow, 

To  mock  the  heart  that  is  resting  below ; 


Where  pure  hearts  are  sleeping,  forever 

blest ; 

Where  wandering  Peris  love  to  rest ; 
Where  the  sky  and  the  earth  are  softly  fair, 
Bury  her  there — bury  her  there  ! 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  THE  YEAR. 

COME  to  the  funeral  of  the  year ! 

Not  with  spirits  worn  by  sadness — 
Bring  no  sigh — and  shed  no  tear — 

Chant  the  song  of  joy  and  gladness. 
Let  the  dead  year  find  the  tomb 

That  many  a  year  hath  found  before  it, 
Hidden  in  the  past's  dark  gloom, 

And  Lethe's  waters  flowing  o'er  it. 

And  other  years  will  still  press  on, 

Bearing,  upon  each  lovely  morrow, 
A  calmer  sky — a  clearer  sun — 

And  fewer  cups  of  human  sorrow. 
Learning's  star  shall  brightly  glow, 

As  science  hidden  truths  discloses — 
Purer  streams  of  light  shall  flow 

Where  superstition  now  reposes. 

Still  the  rose-bud  will  expand 

O'er  the  dimpled  cheek  of  beauty, 
And  the  callous  "  single  band  " 

Turn  from  waywardness  to  duty — 
Love's  frail  chain  will  firmer  bind 

Hearts  that  wear  the  rosy  fetter ; 
And  each  coming  year  will  find 

Mankind  truer,  kinder,  better. 

The  demagogue  will  cease  to  be, 

As  he  has  been,  his  own  extoller ; 
And  Freedom's  land  be  really  free, 

With  none  to  wear  the  "  golden  collar ; " 
And  patriot's  names  will  not  be  made 

The  scoff  and  jest  of  tavern  brawlers — 
And  statesmen's  fame  will  not  be  weigh'd 

Against  the  rant  of  daily  scrawlers. 


112 


JOHN   B.   DILLON. 


[1830-40. 


To  lame's  bright  temple  men  have  made 

In  latter  days  some  madden'd  rushes, 
And  wrote  names  there  o'er  which,  'tis  said, 

The  goddess  of  the  temple  blushes ! 
No  matter— dark'ning  years  will  glide 

O'er  all  which  fame  can  never  cherish, 
And  whate'er  folly  raised  in  pride, 

Like  all  of  folly's  works,  will  perish. 


THE  ORPHAN'S  HARP. 

THE  harp  of  the  orphan  is  mute  and  still, 

And  its  notes  will  cheer  us  never ; 
For  she  who  could  waken  its  deepest  thrill, 

Lies  voiceless  and  cold,  forever ! 
She  sleeps  in  the  vale,  where  violets  bloom, 

And  the  wild  rose  twines  above  her : — 
No    friends    to  lament    o'er  her    hapless 
doom — 

No  kindred  to  pity,  or  love  her. 

Her  cheek  wore  a  bloom  in  her  early  day, 

Ere  the  tear  of  sorrow  started, 
Or   childhood's  bright  dreams  had  faded 
away, 

And  left  her  broken-hearted. 
The  kind  look  of  pity,  or  affection,  smiled 

On  the  desolate  orphan  never ; 
Love's   sweet   illusion  her   heart  had  be 
guiled — 

Then  left  it  in  gloom  forever ! 

The    depth    of   her    anguish   none   could 

know — 

Her  emotions  never  were  spoken  ; 
But  the  hope  of  heaven  a  gleam  can  throw 

Of  joy,  o'er  the  heart  that  is  broken. 
She  passed  from  earth,  like  the  pensive 

light, 

Which  slowly  fades  at  even  ; 
And  her  spotless   spirit  hath   winged  its 

flight, 
To  its  own  bright  home  in  heaven. 


Her    harp    hangs    alone : — its    music    is 

hushed, 

And  will  waken  no  more  on  the  morrow ; 
For  the  heart  that  loved  its  tones,   was 

crushed, 

By  its  own  deep  weight  of  sorrow. 
No  sigh  is  breathed  o'er  her  lonely  tomb — 

No  eyes  are  dim  with  weeping ; 
But  the  violet,  and  the  wild  rose  bloom 
O'er  the  grave   where   the   orphan   is 
sleeping. 


STANZAS. 

I   KNOW  there  are  pangs,  which  rend 

the  breast, 

When  youth  and  love  have  vanished, 
When  from  its  glorious  place  to  rest, 
Hope's  banished — 

But  ye  should  not  be  sad,  where  the  young 
and  the  gay 

With  the  dance  and  the  song,  chase  dull 
sorrow  away ; 

Where  the  cheeks  of  the  old,  as  they  gaze 
on  the  scene, 

Are  lighted  with  smiles,  where  grief's  fur 
rows  have  been. 

Ye  should  chant  the  song  in  the  festive 

hall, 

Where  the  tide  of  joy  is  flowing ; 
Where  the  young  and  fair  at  pleasure's 
call, 

Come  glowing. 

If  ye  would  not  live  on  thro'  sunless  years, 
The  unlov'd  lone  wreck  of  time  and  tears — 
Ye  should  join  the  mirth  of  the  fair  and 

free, 
In  the   bowers  of  love — in  the  halls  of 

glee. 


NATHANIEL  WRIGHT. 


NATHANIEL  WRIGHT  was  born  at  Hanover,  New  Hampshire,  on  the  twenty-eighth 
day  of  January,  1789.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth  College  in  1811,  and  emigrated  to 
Cincinnati  in  1817.  At  the  November  term  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio,  at  Steu- 
benville,  1817,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  He  immediately  began  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  arid  was,  for  many  years,  distinguished  in  the  Hamilton  County  Courts. 
Between  1817  and  1820  he  was  one  of  a  club  of  young  men  of  literary  proclivities, 
who  contributed  articles  to  the  newspapers  of  Cincinnati  "  from  an  old  garret."  Na 
than  Guilford,  Bellamy  Storer,  and  Benjamin  F.  Powers  were  also  members  of  the 
"  Garret  Club."  "  The  Mountain  Storm  "  was  contributed  to  the  Western  Souvenir  in 
1829.  Since  briefs  first  began  to  multiply  in  his  office,  Mr.  Wright  has  neglected  the 
muses. 


TO  A  FLY, 


WHICH   UT   ON  MT  BOOK  DECEMBER  ELEVENTH,   1813. 

SIT  down,  old  friend,  I  feel  no  spite, 
Though  conscience  tells  you  well  .1  might ; 
Sit  down  : — your  knees  are  weak  and  old, 
Your  teeth  are  chattering  with  the  cold ; 
That  leaf  shall  be  your  spacious  bed, 
And  not  a  breath  shall  harm  your  head. 
***** 

Some  months  ago,  my  reverend  fly, 
When  summer's  sun  was  in  the  sky, 
Nature  alive  and  you  were  young, 
You  laughed,   you   frolicked,   danced  and 

sung ; 

Slept  the  short  nights  in  peace  away, 
Banquets  and  ladies  all  the  day; 
Yours  the  first  sip  from  choicest  dishes, 
Yours  the  first  glass  and  all  your  wishes. 
Scepters  and  crowns,  and  robes  of  gold, 
Your  feet  have  trampled,  proud  and  bold : 
Bosom  and  cheek  of  human  fair 
Were  oft  your  carpet  or  your  chair ; 
The  earth  was  yours  with  all  its  grace, 
The  spacious  heavens  your  dwelling-place. 


But,  ah  !  the  cold  November  skies 
Made  dreadful  havoc  of  the  flies ; 


8 


Thousands  on  thousands  by  your  side 
Curled  up  their  little  legs  and  died : 
You,  left  alone,  all  pleasure  fled, 
Remain,  an  outcast  of  the  dead, 
Like  some  old  man  of  wretched  lot, 
Whom  time  has  stripp'd  and  death  forgot. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STORM. 

THE  friend  of  ease,  in  lowland  grove, 
May  lull  his  cares,  and  tend  his  love ; 
See,  but  not  mark,  the  languid  plain, 
A  wide,  a  weary,  blank  domain; 
In  long  and  deep  repose  may  view 
Earth's  pleasant  green,  and  vault  of  blue, 
Till  soft  he  sinks,  with  sleep  oppress'd, 
Beneatli  th'  untroubled  sod  to  rest : — 
Give  me  the  scene  of  uproar  wild  ! 
The  mountain  cliffs  in  rudeness  piled, 
The  summits  bold,  amid  the  sky, 
Where  the  clouds  pause,  that  journey  by ; 
Or,  as  the  storm's  hoar  torrent  spreads, 
Gambols  the  lightning  round  their  heads ; 
The  scene  untamed,  that  fills  the  breast 
With  other  feelings  far  than  rest, 


That  tempts  the  thought  to  other  charms, 
Than  Flora's  lap,  or  Morpheus'  arms, 
(113) 


114 


NATHANIEL    WRIGHT. 


[1830-40. 


And  nerves  the  hand  to  other  deed, 
Than  love's  caress  or  Bacchus'  meed. 

Man — the  poor  insect  of  a  day  ! 
Just  springs  from  earth  to  pass  away, 
Flits  from  the  scene  as  light  and  fast, 
As  the  lake's  shadows  in  the  blast : — 
But  mark  yon  hills  !  those  cliffs  have  stood, 
Unmoved,   since  round  them   dashed  the 

flood. 

How  many  a  race,  beneath  their  crest, 
Has  toiled  its  day,  and  gone  to  rest ! 

Skirting  th'  horizon's  verge  afar, 
And  neighbors  of  the  evening  star, 
In  varied  form  of  peak  or  ridge, 
Or  woody  dell,  or  naked  ledge, 
Here  with  a  fleecy  crest  of  cloud, 
And  there  a  dusky  greenwood  shroud ; 
Approaching  here,  till  tie  Id  and  cot 
Distinctly  mark  the  cultured  spot, — • 
Rttiring  there,  and  soaring  high, 
And  soft'ning,  till  they  melt  in  sky, 
The   mountains    spread: — too   much    like 

life,— 

In  passing  all  turmoil  and  strife  ; 
But  seen  at  distance — pomp  and  pride, 
Or  joy  and  peace  by  parents'  side. 

Oft,  when  at  eve  the  welcome  rain 
Has  left  its  freshness  on  the  plain, 
A  desert  vast  the  dawn  will  greet, 
Of  sleeping  cloud  beneath  your  feet, 
With  here  and  there,  a  lonely  head 
Emerging  from  the  ocean  bed  ; 
All  else  so  lost,  so  still,  and  fair — 
You  almost  ask  if  earth  be  there  ! 
And  wish  the  swallow's  wing  to  try 
The  magic  flood,  and  bathe  in  sky. 

But  grander  far  the  sable  cloud, 
Fraught  with  heaven's  fire,  and  thunder 

loud ; 

Its  fleecy  van  of  silver  sheen, 
But  all  the  rear  a   midnight  scene  ; 
The  solemn  peals  that  slowly  roll, 
From  north  to  south  athwart  the  pole ; 


?he  bursting  bolt,  in  vengeance  hurl'd, 
"hat  jars  this  wide  and  solid  world ; 
?he  pensile  flash,  whose  vivid  form 
Crosses  the  blackness  of  the  storm, 
descending  now,  with  anger  red, 
Scathes  the  dark  mountain's  distant  head, 
Dr  plays  its  gambols  round  the  sky, 
A  solemn  sport  to  mortal  eye! 
"he  plains  beneath  with  awe  are  still, 
[?he  wild  bird  screams  not  from  the  hill, 
Grave  is  the  lambkin  in  his  cote, 
And  hushed  the  warbler's  cheerful  note. 

At  length  the  advancing  torrents  mark 
Yon  utmost  summits,  vailed  and  dark, — 
Hill  after  hill,  as  now  it  nears, 
is  shaded — dimrn'd — and  disappears  ; 
And  mingle  now  along  the  plain, 
The  flash — the  peal — and  dashing  rain. 

The  cloud  has  passed.     Descending  day 
Beams  forth  its  brightest,  loveliest  ray ; — 
The  youthful  flocks  forget  to  feed, 
Through  joy's  excess,  and  race  the  mead ; 
The  songsters  strain  their  little  throats, 
To  lend  their  loudest,  merriest  notes ; 
And  scarce  that  day  does  Phoebus  part 
From  saddened  eye,  or  sorrowing  heart. 

0  !  what  were  life's  dull,  transient  hour, 
Without  its  sunshine  and  its  shower! 
Its  day  of  gloom,  and  doubt's  dark  dream, 
And  hope's  succeeding,  bright'ning  beam  ? 

Yet  gaze  once  more  ! — The  sun  has  set, 
High  though  his  rays  are  lingering  yet — 
How  bright,  beyond  those  summits  old, 
Spreads  the  broad  field  of  living  gold ! 
How  black,  upon  that  glowing  vest, 
Lie  the  long  hills,  that  skirt  the  West ! 

Ambition,  mark  ! — for  glory's  light 
Even  thus  delays  oblivion's  night ; — 
A  twilight  splendor,  soft  and  fair, 
When  death  has  vailed  its  fiercer  glare ; 
But  short  the  hour,  and  sure  the  lot, 
It  fades,  it  sinks,  and  is  forgot. 


MOSES   BROOKS. 


MOSES  BROOKS,  for  many  years  an  active  lawyer  in  Cincinnati,  was  born  near 
Owego,  New  York,  on  the  thirty-first  day  of  October,  1789.  His  early  opportunities 
of  education  were  limited.  In  1811,  he  became  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati.  He  there 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar.  In  1830,  declining  health  admonished  him 
to  abandon  his  practice,  and  he  has  since  been  a  merchant.  He  was  a  contributor  to 
the  Western  Souvenir,  and  has  written  poems  and  essays  for  the  Ladies'  Repository. 
In  1811,  Mr.  Brooks  was  married  to  the  daughter  of  Samuel  Ransom,  of  Angelica, 
New  York. 


AN  APOSTROPHE  TO  A  MOUND. 

HERE  stood  a  mound,  erected  by  a  race 

Unknown  in  history  or  poet's  song, 
Swept  from  the  earth,  nor  even  left  a  trace 
Where  the  broad  ruin  rolled  its  tide  along. 
No  hidden  chronicle  these  piles  among, 
Or  hieroglyphic  monument  survives 

To  tell  their  being's  date  or  whence  they 

sprung — 
Whether  from  Gothic  Europe's  "  northern 

hives," 

Or  that  devoted  land  where  the  dread  siroc 
drives. 

Mysterious  pile !    0  say  for  what  designed? 
Have    flaming    altars   on   thy    summit 

shone  ? 

Have  victims  bled,  by  pious  rites  consigned, 
T'  appease  the  wrath  above,  and  thus 

atone 

For  sinful  man  to  the  eternal  throne  ? 
Momentous  monitor  of  mortal  woe ! 

Thou  dost  proclaim  a  nation  lost,  un 
known, 
Smitten  from  earth  by  some  tremendous 

blow, 

Which  but  a  God  could  give,  and  but  the 
Omniscient  know. 


Hill  of  the  Lord !  where  once  perchance 

of  yore, 

Sincere  devotion  woke  her  pious  strain ; 

Mountain  of  God !  did  prostrate  man  adore, 

And  sing  hosannas  to  Jehovah's  name, 

While  sacrifices  fed  thine  altar's  flame  ? 

But  when  stern  War  his  sanguine  banner 

spread. 
And  strewed   the  earth   with   many  a 

warrior  slain, 
Didst   thou   become   the   charnel   of   the 

dead, 

Who   sought   imperial  sway,   or   for  fair 
Freedom  bled  ? 

Yes;   here   may  some   intrepid   chieftain 

lie, 

Some  Alexander,  great  as  Philip's  son, 
Whose  daring  prowess  bade  the  Persian  fly 
Before  the  conquering  arm  of  Macedon ; 
Or,  greater  still,  some  former  Washing 
ton, 

Whom  glory  warmed  and  liberty  inspired! 
Who  for  this  hemisphere  perchance  had 

won 

His  country's  freedom,  and,  deplored,  ex 
pired, 

Bathed  by  a  nation's  tears,  beloved,  re 
vered,  admired. 


(  115) 


HARYEY  D.  LITTLE. 


THERE  are  lyres  toned  with  the  depth  of  the  ocean-voice,  and  the  energy  of  the 
tempest.  Their  simplest  notes  touch  the  feelings  with  an  irresistible  power,  and  their 
full  breathings  come  over  th&  bosom,  now  with  an  enchantment  which  causes  a  univer 
sal  thrill,  and  now  with  a  rush  and  wildness  that  lash  the  passions  into  rage.  The 
voice  of  such  an  instrument  is  preternatural.  It  penetrates  into  the  inmost  recesses 
of  the  heart — it  swells  up  into  the  ample  chambers  of  the  soul — and,  gathering  vol 
ume  as  it  goes,  strikes  upon  the  chords  of  feeling  with  a  power  that  startles,  entrances, 
and  awes.  Under  its  dominion  are  all  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  capacities :  and,  thus 
supreme,  it  exalts  man  to  the  skies,  or  pinions  him  to  the  earth,  or  "  laps  him  in 
Elysium,"  at  will.  Such  was  the  tone,  and  such  the  compass,  of  his  lyre  who  sang 
of  "Paradise,"  and  of  his  no  less  who  traced  the  "Pilgrimage"  of  the  wayward 
"Chikle" 

There  are  lyres  toned  to  the  gentleness  of  the  zephyr,  and  the  holiness  of  truth. 
Their  empire  is  the  human  heart — their  ministry  is  over  the  affections.  Their  pure 
and  calm  breathings  fall  upon  the  chafed  spirit  with  a  healing  and  restoring  power ; 
the  hot  palm  and  boiling  veins  of  Passion  cool  at  their  approach ;  and  the  holiest 
sympathies  of  our  nature,  are  by  them  called  into  being,  and  rendered  active  and 
availing.  The  voice  of  such  an  instrument,  is  the  voice  of  Nature.  It  is  heard  in 
the  verse  of  the  Great  Psalmist — it  speaks  at  the  bed  of  suffering  and  fear — it  flows 
from  the  tremulous  lips  of  the  fond  mother,  as  she  yields  her  offspring  to  the  remorse 
less  grave — it  arises  from  what  spot  soever  regenerate  humanity  hath  made  its  own — 
and  above  all,  it  comes  down  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  in  its  fullness,  and  strength, 
and  "exceeding  beauty,"  and  circles  the  universe.  To  this  voice,  were  toned  the 
lyres  of  Heber,  and  Hemans,  and  Montgomery ;  to  it,  likewise,  was  toned  that  of  him 
who  is  the  subject  of  this  paper. 

About  the  year  1830,  a  number  of  poetic  effusions,  signed  VELASQUES,  met  my 
eye  in  an  obscure  paper  published  in  the  interior  of  Ohio.*  They  struck  me  as 
p<>— fssing  considerable  merit,  though  they  attracted  no  attention  whatever  from  the 
thousand-and-one  papers  which  circulate  newspaper  scribblers  into  notoriety.  I  there 
fore  collected  several  of  them  together,  and  transmitted  them  to  a  literary  periodical 
at  the  East,  of  wide  circulation  and  no  little  merit ;  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
one  or  two  of  them  copied  and  commended  in  that  work,  and  then  "go  the  rounds"  of 
the  Western  press.  By  this  time  I  had  ascertained  their  author,  and  commenced  a 
correspondence  with  him.  He  was  the  editor  of  the  paper  in  which  the  fugitive 
pieces  had  originally  appeared,  and  his  name,  since  widely  known  and  respected,  was 
HARVEY  D.  LITTLE. 

•At  St.  Clairsville. 
(  H6) 


1830-40.]  HARVEY    D.    LITTLE.  117 

Mr.  Little  was  born  in  Weathersfield,  Connecticut,  in  the  year  1803,  of  honest  and 
respectable,  but  poor  parents.  Jn  1815  or  '16,  the  family  emigrated  to  the  West,  and 
pitched  their  tents  in  Franklin  county,  Ohio,  then  mostly  a  wilderness.  The  young 
poet  was  compelled  to  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  but  yet  found  time,  or 
rather  made  it,  to  advance  his  very  limited  education,  and  improve  his  mind  by  various 
reading.  At  a  proper  age,  he  was  called  upon  to  make  choice  of  a  trade.  The  print 
ing  business  had  before  struck  his  fancy,  by  reason  of  its  intellectual  character,  and 
the  facilities  it  afforded  a  young  and  active  mind  to  acquire  general  knowledge,  and 
he  readily  pitched  upon  it.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer  in  Columbus  ;  and  by 
the  time  he  had  reached  his  twenty-first  year,  had  managed,  besides  faithfully  and 
diligently  serving  his  master,  and  becoming  a  proficient  in  his  business,  to  give  him 
self  an  excellent  English  education,  and  to  acquire  a  very  general  acquaintance  with 
English  literature.  Beside  the  beautiful  rivers  of  the  West,  and  in  the  depths  of  her 
mighty  forests,  he  had  studied  likewise  the  Book  of  Nature,  and  enrolled  himself  on 
the  list  of  her  awed  and  inspired  worshipers.  Her  lessons  sank  deeply  into  his 
heart,  and  her  beauty,  and  vastness,  and  sublimity,  fired  his  imagination.  Though 
learning  was  not  his,  nor  wealth,  nor  power,  nor  the  encouraging  approval  of  influen 
tial  friends,  MIND  was  his  dower ;  and  the  inspired  ones  of  the  Old  World,  here  in  the 
solitude  and  silence  of  the  mighty  wildernesses  of  the  New,  were  his  companions  and 
guides.  Thus  prompted,  his  young  muse  gave  birth  to  a  number  of  effusions,  while 
he  was  yet  in  his  minority,  that  bespeak  the  poet,  the  philanthropist,  and  the  Christian. 
They  are  generally  of  a  reflective  cast,  and  though  marked  by  the  blemishes  common 
to  the  productions  of  budding  intellect,  are  in  every  sense  creditable  to  juvenile  per 
formances.  The  tinge  of  melancholy,  which  was  one  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Little's 
later  writings,  is  observable  in  these  early  manifestations  of  his  poetical  capacity.  This 
\vas  no  doubt  constitutional  in  part,  and  in  part  the  result  of  his  habits  of  life  in  youth. 
It  has  nowhere  the  appearance  of  affectation ;  and  to  one  who  knew  him,  as  I  did, 
though  but  a  few  years  before  his  death — devoid  of  art,  simple  almost  to  childliness, 
zealous  as  a  Christian,  warm  as  a  friend,  faithful  and  devoted  as  a  husband  and  a 
father,  ambitious  more  to  win  a  name  for  goodness  than  for  greatness,  humble  and 
gentle  and  benevolent — it  will  touch  the  heart  with  painful  interest. 

Mr.  Little  was  connected  with  several  newspaper  establishments,  as  editor  and 
co-publisher,  within  a  few  years  after  having  attained  to  his  majority.  He  found  the 
business  unprofitable,  however,  in  every  instance,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  or  six, 
having  in  the  mean  time  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  espoused  an  amiable  lady,  a 
daughter  of  Doctor  Horton  Howard  of  Columbus,  he  abandoned  it  entirely,  with  the 
intention  of  devoting  himself  to  the  practice  of  his  new  profession.  His  first  efforts 
at  the  bar  inspired  confidence  in  his  talents  and  energy,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  success  appeared  on  the  eve  of  crowning  his  efforts.  But,  alas !  how  unstable 
are  the  determinations  of  man.  Domestic  considerations  induced  Mr.  Little  to  aban 
don  the  law  for  a  time,  and  again  take  upon  himself  the  editorial  charge  of  a  period 
ical  publication.  In  this  he  was  engaged  when,  in  August  of  the  year  1833,  his 
career  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  hand  of  death.  He  fell  a  victim  to  the  Asiatic 


118  HA  KVEYD.    LITTLE.  [1830-40. 

scourge,  which  at  that  time  swept  over  this  fair  land,  desolating  many  a  happy  home, 
and  quenching  the  fires  of  many  an  aspiring  spirit.  He  died  in  the  thirty -first  year 
of  his  age,  leaving  behind  him  his  wife  and  one  child,  having  buried  two  of  the  three 
cherubs  with  which  he  had  been  blessed,  but  a  few  days  previous  to  his  own  demise.* 
But  a  couple  of  weeks  before,  I  had  felt  the  warm  pressure  of  his  friendly  hand,  and 
left  him, 

"  Fresh-lipp'd,  and  iron-nerved,  and  high  of  heart," 

indulging  in  the  brightest  anticipations  of  future  usefulness  and  happiness.  He  was 
maturing  several  literary  schemes  ;  and  when  we  parted,  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the 
time,  which  he  began  to  think  at  hand,  when  he  should  have  leisure  to  do  something 
for  the  literature  of  his  country,  and  the  honor  of  his  name.  But  alas  !  to 

•    •    •    •     "  the  bereaving  tomb, 
Where  end  Ambition's  day-dreams  all." 

he  was  hurried,  within  a  fortnight  of  that  time,  with  only  the  warning  of  a  few  hours. 
Death  found  him  prepared  for  the  harvest ;  and  a  good  and  noble  soul  was  gathered 
into  the  Great  Garner,  when  he  fell. 

Mr.  Little  was  a  type  of  a  class  of  young  men  who,  though  not  altogether  peculiar 
to  the  West,  have  yet  marked  this  section  of  the  Union  more  distinctly  than  any  other. 
Harvard,  Yale,  West  Point,  and  similar  institutions  in  the  Eastern  States,  have  severally 
been  the  Alma  Mater  of  men  who  have  therein  risen  to  distinction  at  the  bar,  in  the 
army,  in  the  pulpit,  and  in  the  halls  of  legislation.  In  the  Western  States,  however, 
those  places  have  been,  and  now  are,  to  an  extent  which  makes  it  worthy  of  remark, 
filled  by  men  who,  like  Mr.  Little,  graduated  in  a  printing-office  instead  of  a  college, 
and  made  their  first  mark  with  printer's  ink  instead  of  blood,  blue-fluid,  or  the  meas 
ured  tones  of  a  voice  trained  to  command,  to  supplicate,  to  plead  in  court,  or  fulminate 
in  senatorial  halls. 

According  to  established  literary  canons,  Mr.  Little's  poetical  genius  was  not  of  the 
higher  order.  The  tones  of  his  harp  were  like  the  breathing  of  the  "sweet  south 
west,"  and  came  upon  the  heart  mildly  and  soothingly.  The  melody  of  his  verse  was 
perfect ;  its  imagery  rich — its  language  choice — its  figures  striking  and  appropriate. 
But  to  it  belonged  the  softness  and  shadow  of  twilight,  rather  than  the  depth  and 
strength  of  the  full-robed  night ;  the  stillness  and  dewy  beauty  of  early  dawn,  rather 
than  the  brightness  and  power  of  meridian  day.  His  poetry  was  never  impassioned 
or  stormy — never  ambitious  or  dazzling ;  but  always  gentle,  and  pensive,  and  breath 
ing  of  love,  and  duty,  and  religion — the  full  outpouring  of  a  Christian  spirit.  Had  he 
been  spared,  to  try  his  wing  at  a  continuous  flight,  I  not  only  believe  that  it  would 
have  sustained  him,  but  that  he  would  have  produced  something,  which  would  not 
have  been  an  honor  to  his  name  alone,  but  to  his  country. 

*  Mr.  Little  died  on  the  evening  of  August  twenty -second,  1833.  The  periodical  he  edited,  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  was  called  The  Eclectic  and  Medical  Botanist.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Columbus  Typographical  Society. 
On  the  thirteenth  of  November,  1833,  that  Society  held  a  meeting  in  memory  of  Mr.  Little,  at  which  Rev.  Warren 
Jenkins  delivered  an  address. 


1830-40.] 


HARVEY    D.    LITTLE 


119 


PALMYRA. 

How  art  thou  fallen,  mighty  one ! 

Queen  of  the  desert's  arid  brow ! 
The  evening's  shade,  the  morning's  sun, 

Rest  only  on  thy  ruins  now. 
Thine  hour  is  o'er,  thy  glory's  done, 

A  dreary  waste  thy  charms  endow ! 

In  thy  proud  days  thou  seem'dst  a  star, 
Amidst  a  desert's  sullen  gloom, 

Shedding  thy  radiance  afar 
O'er  nature's  solitary  tomb. 

But  time,  whose  gentlest  touch  can  mar, 
Hath  sear'd  thy  tall  palmetto's  bloom. 

The  shouts  of  joy — the  voice  of  mirth, 
That  waked  to  life  thy  marble  domes : 

Thy  crowded  marts — thy  peopled  earth — 
Thy  sculptur'd  halls,  and  sacred  homes, 

Are  silent  now.     Thy  faded  worth 
A  barren  wilderness  entombs. 

The  savage  beast  hath  made  his  lair, 
Where  pomp  and  power   once  held 
their  sway ; 

And  silence,  with  a  fearful  air, 
Sits  darkly  brooding  o'er  decay : 

And  marble  fanes,  divinely  fair, 

Have  bowed  beneath  thine  evil  day. 

Round  polish'd  shafts  the  ivy  twines 
A  wreath  funereal  for  thy  fate : 

And  through  thy  temples'  broken  shrines 
The  moaning  wind  sweeps  desolate. 

But  the  mild  star  of  evening  shines 
Benignly  o'er  thy  fallen  state. 

Oh,  how  thy  silence  chills  the  heart 
Of  the  lone  traveler,  whose  tread 

Is  o'er  the  fragments  of  thine  art, 
Thou  wondrous  City  of  the  Dead ! 

Thy  glory  cannot  yet  depart, 

Though  all  of  life  hath  from  thee  fled. 


AWAY,  AWAY,  I  SCORN  THEM  ALL. 

AWAY,  away,  I  scorn  them  all, 

The  mirthful  board,  the  joyous  glee ; 

The  laughter  of  the  festive  hall ; 
The  long  wild  shouts  of  revelry ; 

To  their  vain  worshipers  they  bring 

Seasons  of  bitter  sorrowing. 

But,  oh,  by  far  the  wiser  part, 

To  visit  that  secluded  spot, 
Where  death  hath  quench'd  some  faith 
ful  heart, 

And  closed,  for  aye,  its  varied  lot : 
For  there,  beside  the  funeral  urn, 
Lessons  of  wisdom  we  may  learn. 

The  brief  but  busy  scenes  of  life — 
Its  fickle  pleasures,  and  its  woes — 

Its  mingled  happiness  and  strife — 
Its  fearful  and  its  final  close, 

Pass  through  the  mind  in  swift  review, 

With  all  their  colorings  strictly  true. 

We  see  the  littleness  of  man — 

The  end  of  all  his  pride  and  power : — 

Scarce  has  his  pilgrimage  began 

E'er  death's  dark  clouds  upon  him 
lower ; 

And  rank,  and  pomp,  and  greatness,  flee 

Like  meteor  gleams  ! — and  where  is  he  ? 

Yes,  where  is  he,  whose  mighty  mind 
Could  soar  beyond  the  bounds  of  space, 

And  in  some  heavenly  planet  find 
The  spirit's  final  resting  place  ? 

Gone  !  gone,  in  darkness,  down  to  dust ! 

"Ashes  to  ashes,"  mingle  must. 

Well  may  we  learn  from  life's  last  scene, 
The  fearful  lessons  of  man's  fate : 

How  frail  the  barriers  between 
The  living  and  the  dead's  estate. 

The  elastic  air — the  vital  breath — 

Is  but  the  link  'twixt  life  and  death. 


120 


HARVEY    D.    LITTLE. 


[1830-40. 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

I  CAME  once  more,  a  wearied  man, 

To  look  upon  that  holy  spot, 
Where  first  my  infant  life  began 

To  journey  through  its  changeful  lot. 
I  came ! — A  thousand  shadows  play 

Upon  the  mirror  of  my  mind — 
The  phantoms  of  a  happier  day 

In  Memory's  sacred  keeping  shrined. 

I  gaze !  and  lo  !  before  me  rise 

The  shades  of  many  a  hallowed  form : 
They  pass  before  my  wilder'd  eyes, 

With  looks  as  blooming,  young,  and 

warm, 
As  twice  ten  years  ago  they  seem'd, 

When  last  in  sportive  hour  we  met : 
But  ah !  we  then  had  never  dream'd 

That  youth's  bright  sun  so  soon  would 
set. 

Where  are  they  now  ? — I  find  them  not 

Where  erst  their  glorious  forms  were 

found ! 
Each  favorite  haunt,  each  well  known  spot, 

Echoes  no  more  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  their  glad  voices.     They  are  gone, 

O'er  hills,  and  streams,  and  valleys 

wide; 
Scattered  like  leaves  by  autumn  strown, 

E'en  in  their  freshest  bloom  and  pride. 

The  placid  brook  still  winds  its  way 

Tli rough  sloping  banks  bedeck'd  with 

flowers : 
The  zephyrs  through  the  leaflets  play, 

The  same  as  in  life's  early  hours. 
But  time  and  change  have  strangely  cast 

O'er  every  spot  a  lonesome  air : 
My  thoughts  are  treasur'd  with  the  past — 

My  happiest  moments  center  there. 

I  feel  that  e'en  my  childhood's  home 
Hath  lost  its  once  mysterious  charm  ! 

No  voice  parental  bids  me  come — 
None  greets  me  with  affection  warm ! 


But  yet,  amid  my  being's  blight, 

One  nourish'd  thought  with  fondness 

glows — 
That  where  mine  eyes  first  hailed  the 

light, 
There  they,  at  last,  shall  darkly  close. 


ON  JUDAH'S  HILLS. 

ON  Judah's  hill  the  towering  palm 
Still  spreads  its  branches  to  the  sky, 

The  same  through  years  of  storm  and 

calm, 
As  erst  it  was  in  days  gone  by, 

When  Israel's  king  poured  forth  his  psalm 
In  strains  of  sacred  melody. 

And  Lebanon,  thy  forests  green 
Are  waving  in  the  lonely  wind, 

To  mark  the  solitary  scene, 

Where  wandering  Israel's  hopes  are 
shrined ; 

But  the  famed  Temple's  ancient  sheen 
The  pilgrim  seeks,  in  vain,  to  find. 

And  Kedron's  brook,  and  Jordan's  tide, 
Roll  onward  to  the  sluggish  sea : 

But  where  is  Salem's  swollen  pride, 
Her  chariots,  and  her  chivalry, 

Her  Tyrian  robes  in  purple  dyed, 
Her  warlike  hosts,  who  scorned  to  flee  ? 

Gone  !  all  are  gone  !  In  sullen  mood 
The  cruel  Arab  wanders  there, 

In  search  of  human  spoils  and  blood ; 
The  victims  of  his  wily  snare : 

And  where  the  holy  prophets  stood 
The  wild  beasts  make  their  secret  lair. 

But,  oh  !    Judea,  there  shall  come 
For  thee  another  glorious  morn ; 

When  thy  retreats  shall  be  a  home 
For  thousands  pining  now  forlorn, 

In  distant  lands ; — no  more  to  roam 
The  objects  of  disdain  and  scorn. 


GEORGE  B.  PRENTICE. 


GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE  was  born  on  the  eighteenth  of  December,  1802,  in 
the  town  of  Preston,  in  the  State  of  Connecticut.  Such  was  his  early  ripeness  of  intel 
lect  that  he  was  appointed  the  principal  of  a  public  school  before  he  was  fifteen  years 
of  age.  He  went  to  College,  and  graduated  at  Brown  University,  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  in  the  year  1823.  He  then  studied  the  profession  of  the  law,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1827.  In  1828,  he  established  the  New  England  Weekly  Review,  at 
Hartford,  Connecticut.  Leaving  John  G.  Whiltier  to  conduct  the  Review,  in  the 
summer  of  1830,  Mr.  Prentice  removed  to  Kentucky,  and  wrote  the  life  of  Henry 
Clay.*  In  November  of  the  same  year,  he  established  The  Louisville  Journal,  and 
has  been  its  chief  editor  ever  since.  The  fame  of  the  Journal  is  not  only  superemi- 
nent  in  the  West,  but  it  is  known  throughout  the  Union  as  an  influential  and  popular 
gazette.  In  the  broad  universality  of  its  scope,  it  comprehends  every  thing  that  a 
journal,  political,  literary  and  commercial,  may  be  expected  to  possess. 

Whatever  may  be  the  sacrilege  of  giving  utterance  to  such  an  opinion,  I  cannot 
forego  saying,  that  in  my  estimation,  George  D.  Prentice  is  one  of  the  most  perfect 
masters  of  blank  verse  in  America,  and  that  his  writings  in  that  style  contain  as  much 
of  the  genuine  element  of  genius  in  poetry  as  those  of  any  of  our  countrymen.  To 
such  as  question  this  decision,  I  can  but  refer  to  his  two  poems — one  upon  the  "  Flight 
of  Years,"  and  his  lines  upon  the  "  Mammoth  Cave."  His  "  Dead  Mariner,"  and 
other  rhymed  pieces,  evince  how  exquisite  a  master  he  is  of  versification.  He  has  a 
fine  musical  ear,  and  the  harmony  of  his  numbers  flows  with  the  most  mellifluous 
measure,  while  his  verse  is  graced  with  diction  as  chaste  as  it  is  elegant.  Every  thing 
he  preserves  in  the  amber  of  his  poesy  is  selected  with  unerring  taste.  What  he  has 
written  as  a  poet  only  makes  us  wish  for  more. 

King  George  is  said  to  have  asked  Dr.  Johnson  why  he  had  ceased  to  write.  "  I 
think  I  have  written  enough,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  It  would  have  been  enough,"  re 
turned  the  King,  "were  it  not  so  well  written."  The  precious  fame  the  poet  pur 
chases,  is  generally  at  the  cost  of  business  success  in  every  other  affair  of  life,  and 
not  infrequently  at  the  expense  of  losing  credit  for  all  practicability  of  mind — reason 
being  generally  supposed  to  exist  in  inverse  ratio  to  fancy  and  imagination — prose 
and  prosiness  being  frequently  mistaken  as  indices  of  profoundness  and  philosophy, 
while  poetry  has  a  popular  co-relative  connection  with  superficiality  and  impractica 
bility.  But  none  who  see  the  spirit  of  this  true  genius,  winging  his  way  along  the 
level  face  of  the  earth,  as  Goethe  says, 

"  in  the  glow  and  smoke, 

Where  the  blind  million  rush  impetuously 
To  meet  the  Evil  One  "  — 

*  Biography  of  Henry  Clay.    By  George  D.  Prentice.     Hartford  :  Hanmer  and  Phelps,  1831.     12mo,  pp  304. 

(  121   } 


122  GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE.  [1830-40. 

in  the  crowded  ways  of  dusty  cities,  or  hovering  about  the  fog-mantled  pool  of  politics, 
but  feel  that  the  same  spirit  has  the  power  to  soar  up  to  the  sun,  and 

"  Bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home  !  " 

In  the  case  of  George  D.  Prentice,  we  see  the  phenomenon  of  the  Poet,  the  Phi 
losopher  and  the  Politician  swallowed  up  by  the  quaint  and  laughable  Gargantua  of 
the  Wit.  Falstaff-like,  he  is  not  only  witty  in  himself,  "  but  the  cause  that  wit  is  in 
other  men."  So  popular  is  he  as  a  paragraphist  that  a  volume  of  his  tl  wit  and  wis 
dom  "  has  been  widely  circulated.* 

The  many-sided  mind  that  made  the  masterly  editor  and  politician,  has  given  to  Mr. 
Prentice  that  universality  of  genius  that  can  alone  constitute  the  truly  great  poet — the 
possession  of  that  common  sense  which  corrects  the  erratic  caprices  of  genius,  and  gives 
its  true  weight  and  value  to  every  subject  and  idea.  Such  is  the  kaleidoscopic  nature 
of  the  brain  of  George  D.  Prentice.  His  pathos  is  counterbalanced  by  his  humor ; 
his  sublimity  is  matched  by  his  wit;  the  keen  subtlety  of  his  sarcasm  finds  its 
counterpoise  in  that  overwelling  fountain  of  sentiment,  in  whose  translucent  depths 
gems  of  beauty  dance  forever.  No  proposition  is  too  broad  for  his  comprehension,  no 
abstraction  too  evasive,  no  flower  of  fancy  too  delicate,  and  no  microcosm  too  minute 
for  his  inspection.  In  wit,  he  catches  the  joke  in  the  very  seed,  as  it  were,  before  it 
blossoms  into  a  laugh.  He  marks  a  jest  ab  ovo,  before  its  head  is  fairly  out  of  the 
shell,  and  you  never  fear  for  your  pun  or  point.  Whether  you  wander  off  into  the 
fairy  realm  of  Romance  with  him,  and  walk  the  Valhalla  galleries  of  ideal  temples 
and  castles,  or  pensively  meditate  under  green,  summer  boughs,  by  a  blue  and  idle 
brook,  he  is  equally  genial. 

Mr.  Prentice,  by  private  correspondence  and  by  timely  notices  in  his  Journal,  has 
caused  many  a  blossom  of  poetry  to  blow  in  hearts  that  otherwise  might  only  have 
worn  a  purple  crown  of  thistles.  Many  will  be  able  to  say  of  him  in  after-time,  what 
one  gifted  protege  in  song  of  his  has  so  sweetly  sung,  the  lamented  "  Amelia : " 

The  bright  rose,  when  faded, 

Flings  forth  o'er  its  tomb 
Its  velvet  leaves,  laded 

With  silent  perfume. 
Thus  round  me  will  hover, 

In  grief  or  in  glee, 
Till  life's  dream  be  over, 

Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

Mr.  Prentice  married  a  daughter  of  Joseph  Benham,  of  Cincinnati,  one  of  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  the  Ohio  bar.  Mrs.  Prentice  inherited  her  father's  talent,  and 
is  a  brilliant  and  accomplished  woman. 

Finally,  bold,  vindictive  and  scathing  politician  that  Mr.  Prentice  is  in  public, 
modesty,  humility  and  kindness  cluster  about  him  in  private  life ;  and  where  the  ten 
drils  of  his  friendship  attach  themselves,  no  storm  of  passion  or  winter  of  adversity 
ever  weakens  their  hold. 

* Prenticeana,  or  Wit  and  Humor  in  Paragraphs.     Derby  &  Jackson,  New  York,  1859.     12mo,  pp.  306. 


1830-40.] 


GEORGE   D.   PRENTICE. 


123 


THE  DEAD  MARINER. 

SLEEP  on,  sleep  on !  above  thy  corse 

The  winds  their  Sabbath  keep  ; 
The  waves  are  round  thee,  and  thy  breast 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  deep. 
O'er  thee  mild  eve  her  beauty  flings, 
And  there  the  white  gull  lifts  her  wings  ; 
And  the  blue  halcyon  loves  to  lave 
Her  plumage  in  the  deep,  blue  wave. 

Sleep  on ;  no  willow  o'er  thee  bends 

With  melancholy  air, 
No  violet  springs,  nor  dewy  rose 

Its  soul  of  love  lays  bare ; 
But  there  the  sea-flower,  bright  and  young, 
Is  sweetly  o'er  thy  slumbers  flung  ; 
And,  like  a  weeping  mourner  fair, 
The  pale  flag  hangs  its  tresses  there. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  glittering  depths 

Of  ocean's  coral  caves 
Are  thy  bright  urn — thy  requiem 

The  music  of  its  waves  ; 
The  purple  gems  forever  burn 
In  fadeless  beauty  round  thy  urn  ; 
And  pure  and  deep  as  infant  love, 
The  blue  sea  rolls  its  waves  above. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ;  the  fearful  wrath 

Of  mingling  cloud  and  deep 
May  leave  its  wild  and  stormy  track 

Above  thy  place  of  sleep  ; 
But,  when  the  wave  has  sunk  to  rest, 
As  now,  't  will  murmur  o'er  thy  breast ; 
And  the  bright  victims  of  the  sea 
Perchance  will  make  their  home  with  thee 

Sleep  on ;  thy  corse  is  far  away, 

But  love  bewails  thee  yet ; 
For  thee  the  heart-wrung  sigh  is  breathed 

And  lovely  eyes  are  wet ; 
And  she,  thy  young  and  beauteous  bride, 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  by  thy  side, 
As  oft  she  turns  to  view,  with  tears, 
The  Eden  of  departed  years. 


A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE. 

NIGHT  steals  upon  the  world ;  the  shades 

With  silent  flight,  are  sweeping  down 
To  steep,  as  day's  last  glory  fades, 

In  tints  of  blue  the  landscape  brown  ; 
The  wave  breaks  not ;  deep  slumber  holds 
The  dewy  leaves  ;  the  night-wind  folds 
tier  melancholy  wing  ;  and  sleep 
Ls  forth  upon  the  pulseless  deep. 

The  willows,  'mid  the  silent  rocks, 

Are  brooding  o'er  the  waters  mild, 
Like  a  fond  mother's  pendent  locks 

Hung  sweetly  o'er  her  sleeping  child ; 
The  flowers  that  fringe  the  purple  stream, 
Are  sinking  to  their  evening  dream ; 
And  earth  appears  a  lovely  spot, 
Where  sorrow's  voice  awakens  not. 

But  see!  such  pure,  such  beautiful, 

And  burning  scenes  awake  to  birth 
In  yon  bright  depths,  they  render  dull 

The  loveliest  tents  that  mantle  earth ! 
The  heavens  are  rolling  blue  and  fair, 
And  the  soft  night-gems  clustering  there 
Seem,  as  on  high  they  breathe  and  burn, 
Bright  blossoms  o'er  day's  shadowy  urn. 

At  this  still  hour,  when  starry  songs 
Are    floating   through   night's    glowing 

noon, 
How  sweet  to  view  those  radiant  throngs 

Glitter  around  the  throne  of  June  ! 
To  see  them  in  their  watch  of  love, 
Gaze  from  the  holy  heavens  above, 
And  in  their  robes  of  brightness  roam 
Like  angels  o'er  the  eternal  dome ! 

Their  light  is  on  the  ocean  isles, 

'Tis  trembling  on  the  mountain  stream ; 

And  the  far  hills,  beneath  their  smiles, 
Seem  creatures  of  a  blessed  dream  ! 

Upon  the  deep  their  glory  lies, 

As  if  untreasured  from  the  skies, 


124 


GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE. 


[1830-40. 


And  comes  soft  flashing  from  its  waves, 

Like  sea-gems  from  their  sparry  caves ! 

*          ****** 

Why  gaze  I  thus !  'tis  worse  than  vain  ! 

'Twas  here  I  gazed  in  years  gone  by, 
Ere   life's   cold  winds  had  breathed  one 
stain 

On  Fancy's  rich  and  mellow  sky. 
I  feel,  I  feel  those  early  years 
Deep  thrilling  through  the  fount  of  tears, 
And  hurrying  brightly,  wildly  back 
O'er  Memory's  deep  and  burning  track ! 

'Twas  here  I  gazed !     The  night-bird  still 
Pours  its  sweet  song ;  the  starlight  beams 
Still  tinge  the  flower  and  forest  hill ; 

And  music  gushes  from  the  streams ; 
But  I  am  changed !  I  feel  no  more 
The  sinless  joys  that  charmed  before  ; 
And  the  dear  years,  so  far  departed, 
Come  but  to  "mock  the  broken-hearted!" 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  YEARS. 

GONE!  gone  forever! — like  a  rushing  wave 
Another  year  has  burst  upon  the  shore 
Of  earthly  being — and  its  last  low  tones, 
Wandering  in  broken  accents  on  the  air, 
Are  dying  to  an  echo. 

The  gay  Spring, 
With   its  young  charms,  has  gone — gone 

with  its  leaves — 

Its  atmosphere  of  roses — its  white  clouds 
Slumbering  like  seraphs  in  the  air — its  birds 
Telling  their  loves  in  music — and  its  streams 
Leaping  and  shouting  from  the  up-piled 

rocks 

To  make  earth  echo  with  the  joy  of  waves. 
And  Summer,  with  its  dews  and  showers, 

has  gone — 

Its  rainbows  glowing  on  the  distant  cloud 
Like  Spirits  of  the  Storm — its   peaceful 

lakes 


Smiling  in  their  sweet  sleep,  as  if  their 

dreams 
Were  of  the  opening  flowers  and  budding 

trees 

And  overhanging  sky — and  its  bright  mists 
Resting  upon  the  mountain-tops,  as  crowns 
Upon  the  heads  of  giants.  Autumn  too 
Has  gone,  with  all  its  deeper  glories — gone 
With  its  green  hills  like  altars  of  the  world 
Lifting  their  rich  fruit-offerings  to  their 

God- 
Its  cool  winds  straying  'mid  the  forest  aisles 
To  wake  their   thousand  wind-harps — its 

serene 

And  holy  sunsets  hanging  o'er  the  West 
Like   banners   from    the    battlements   of 

Heaven — 
And  its  still  evenings,  when  the  moonlit 

sea 

Was  ever  throbbing,  like  the  living  heart 
Of  the  great  Universe.    Ay — these  are  now 
But  sounds  and  visions  of  the  past — their 

deep, 

Wild  beauty  has  departed  from  the  Earth, 
And  they  are  gathered  to  the  embrace  of 

Death, 
Their  solemn  herald  to  Eternity. 

Nor  have  they  gone  alone.     High  human 

hearts 
Of  Passion  have  gone   with  them.     The 

fresh  dust 
Is   chill   on   many  a   breast,  that   burned 

erewhile 
With  fires  that  seemed  immortal.     Joys, 

that  leaped 
Like  angels  from  the  heart,  and  wandered 

free 

In  life's  young  morn  to  look  upon  the  flowers, 
The  poetry  of  nature,  and  to  list 
The  woven  sounds  of  breeze,  and  bird,  and 

stream, 

Upon  the  night-air,  have  been  stricken  down 
In  silence  to  the  dust.     Exultant  Hope, 
That  roved  forever  on  the  buoyant  winds 
Like  the  bright,  starry  bird  of  Paradise, 


1830-40.] 


GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE. 


125 


And  chanted  to  the  ever-listening  heart 
In  the  wild  music  of  a  thousand  tongues, 
Or  soared  into  the  open  sky,  until 
Night's  burning  gems  seemed  jeweled  on 

her  brow, 
Has  shut  her  drooping  wing,  and  made  her 

home 

Within  the  voiceless  sepulcher.    And  Love, 
That  knelt  at  Passion's  holiest  shrine,  and 

gazed 

On  his  heart's  idol  as  on  some  sweet  star, 
Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  dear, 
And  dreamed  of  ecstacies,  until  his  soul 
Seemed  but  a  lyre,  that  wakened  in  the 

glance 

Of  the  beloved  one — he  too  has  gone 
To  his  eternal  resting-place.     And  where 
Is  stern  Ambition — he  who  madly  grasped 
At  Glory's   fleeting    phantom  —  he   who 

sought 

His  fame  upon  the  battle-field,  and  longed 
To  make  his  throne  a  pyramid  of  bones 
Amid  the  sea  of  blood  ?     He  too  has  gone ! 
His    stormy  voice   is  mute  —  his   mighty 

arm 

Is  nerveless  on  its  clod — his  very  name 
Is  but  a  meteor  of  the  night  of  years 
Whose  gleams  flashed  out  a  moment  o'er 

the  Earth, 

And  faded  into  nothingness.     The  dream 
Of  high  devotion — beauty's  bright  array — 
And  life's  deep  idol  memories — all  have 

passed 
Like    the   cloud-shadows   on    a    starlight 

stream, 

Or  a  soft  strain  of  music,  when  the  winds 
Are  slumbering  on  the  billow. 

Yet,  why  muse 
Upon  the  past  with  sorrow  ?     Though  the 

year 

Has  gone  to  blend  with  the  mysterious  tide 
Of  old  Eternity,  and  borne  along 
Upon  its  heaving  breast  a  thousand  wrecks 
Of  glory  and  of  beauty — yet,  why  mourn 
That  such  is  destiny  ?     Another  year 


Succeedeth   to   the   past — in  their  bright 

round 
The  seasons  come  and  go — the  same  blue 

arch, 
That  hath  hung  o'er  us,  will  hang  o'er  us 

yet— 
The  same  pure  stars  that  we  have  lov'd  to 

watch, 

Will  blossom  still  at  twilight's  gentle  hour 
Like  lilies  on  the  tomb  of  Day — and  still 
Man  will  remain,  to   dream  as   he   hath 

dreamed, 
And  mark  the  earth  with  passion.     Love 

will  spring 
From  the  lone  tomb  of  old  Affections — 

Hope 

And  Joy  and  great  Ambition,  will  rise  up 
As  they  have  risen — and  their  deeds  will  be 
Brighter  than  those  engraven  on  the  scroll 
Of  parted  centuries.     Even  now  the  sea 
Of  coming  years,  beneath  whose  mighty 

waves 

Life's  great  events  are  heaving  into  birth, 
Is  tossing  to  and  fro,  as  if  the  winds 
Of  heaven  were  prisoned  in  its  soundless 

depths 
And  struggling  to  be  free. 

Weep  not,  that  Time 
Is  passing  on — it  will  ere  long  reveal 
A  brighter  era  to  the  nations.     Hark  ! 
Along  .the  vales  and  mountains  of  the  earth 
There  is  a  deep,  portentous  murmuring, 
Like  the  swift  rush  of  subterranean  streams, 
Or  like  the  mingled  sounds  of  earth  and  air, 
When  the  fierce  Tempest,  with  sonorous 

wing, 
Heaves  his    deep  folds  upon  the  rushing 

winds, 

And  hurries  onward  with  his  night  of  clouds 
Against  the  eternal  mountains.     'Tis  the 

voice 

Of  infant  Freedom — and  her  stirring  call 
Is  heard  and  answered  in  a  thousand  tones 
From  every  hill-top  of  her  western  home — 
And  lo — it  breaks  across  old  Ocean's  fk  <  ><1 — 


126 


GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE. 


[18:50-40. 


And  •*  Freedom !  Freedom !"  is  the  answer 
ing  shout 

Of  nations  starting  from  the  spell  of  years. 
The  day-spring! — see — 'tis  brightening  in 

the  heavens ! 
The  watchmen  of  the  night  have  caught 

the  sign — 
From  tower  to  tower  the  signal-fires  flash 

free — 
And  the  deep  watch-word,  like  the  rush  of 

seas 

That  heralds  the  volcano's  bursting  flame, 
Is  sounding  o'er  the  earth.  Bright  years 

of  hope 

And  life  are  on  the  wing ! — Yon  glorious  bow 
Of  Freedom,  bended  by  the  hand  of  God, 
Is  spanning  Time's  dark  surges.  Its  high 

Arch, 

A  type  of  Love  and  Mercy  on  the  cloud, 
Tells,  that  the  many  storms  of  human  life 
Will  pass  in  silence,  and  the  sinking  waves, 
Gathering  the  forms  of  glory  and  of  peace. 
Reflect  the  undimmed  brightness  of  the 

Heavens. 


THE   STARS. 

THOSE  burning  stars !  what  are  they  ?     I 

have  dreamed 

That  they  were  blossoms  on  the  tree  of  life, 
Or  glory  flung  back  from  the  outspread 

wings 
Of   God's  Archangels  ;  or  that  yon  blue 

skies, 

With  all  their  gorgeous  blazonry  of  gems, 
Were  a  bright  banner  waving  o'er  the  earth 
From  the  far  wall  of  heaven !  And  I  have 

sat 

And  drank  their  gushing  glory,  till  I  felt 
Their  flash  electric  trembling  with  the  deep 
Am!  strong  vibration  down  the  living  wire 
Of  chainless  passion  ;  and  my  every  pulse 


Was  beating  high,  as  if   a  spring   were 

there 
To   buoy   me   up,   where    I    might   ever 

roam 

'Mid  the  unfathomed  vastness  of  the  sky, 
And  dwell  with  those  bright  stars,  and  see 

their  light 

Poured  down  upon  the  earth  like  dew 
From  the  bright  urns  of  Naiads ! 

Beautiful  stars ! 
What  are  ye  ?     There  is  in  my  heart  of 

hearts 
A  fount  that  heaves  beneath  you,  like  the 

deep 

Beneath  the  glories  of  the  midnight  moon! 
And  list — your  Eden-tones  are  floating  now 
Around  me  like  an  element — so  slow, 
So  mildly  beautiful^  I  almost  deem 
That  ye  are  there,  the  living  harps  of  God, 
O'er    which    the    incense-winds  of   Eden 

stray, 

And  wake  such  tones  of  mystic  minstrelsy 
As  well  might  wander  down  to  this  dim 

world 
To  fashion  dreams  of  heaven  !     Peal  on — 

peal  on — 
Nature's   high   anthem!    for  my  life  has 

caught 

A  portion  of  your  purity  and  power, 
And  seems  but  as  a  sweet  and  glorious  tone 
Of  wild  star-music ! 

Blessed,  blessed  things  ! 
Ye  are  in  heaven,  and  I  on  earth.     My 

soul, 
Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush,  can  wander 

off 

To  your  immortal  realms,  but  it  must  fall, 
Like  your  own  ancient  Pleiad,  from  its 

height, 

To  dim  its  new-caught  glories  in  the  dust ! 
This  earth  is  very  beautiful.     I  love 
Its  wilderness  of  flowers,  its  bright  clouds, 
The  majesty  of  mountains,  and  the  dread 
Magnificence  of  ocean — for  they  come 
Like   visions  on  my  heart;  but  when  I 

look 


1830-40.] 


GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE. 


127 


On  your  unfading  loveliness,  I  feel 
Like  a  lost  infant  gazing  on  its  home, 
And  weep  to  die,  and  come  where  ye  repose 
Upon  yon  boundless  heaven,  like  parted 

souls 
On  an  eternity  of  blessedness. 


SABBATH  EVENING. 

How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun ! 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still; 
And  beautiful  as  dreams  of  heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks,  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bowed  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine  ; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds 

blow, 

So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer, 
Soft  echoed  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  Fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 
And  from  their  sacrifice  of  love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 
The  night-arch  floating  high, 

The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 
The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 

Are  living  with  religion — deep 

On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 


And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of  music  there  ! 
And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  filled  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild  ; 
And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 

Of  glory  undefined ! 
And  holy  aspirations  start, 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 
And    bind — for    earth's    dark   ties   are 

riven — 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


WRITTEN  AT  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

THE  trembling  dew-drops  fall 
Upon  the  shutting  flowers  ;  like  souls  at  rest 
The  stars  shine  gloriously :  and  all 
Save  me,  are  blest. 

Mother,  I  love  thy  grave  ! 
The  violet,  with  its  blossoms  blue  and  mild, 
Waves  o'er  thy  head  ;  when  shall  it  wave 
Above  thy  child ! 

'Tis  a  sweet  flower,  yet  must 
Its  bright  leaves  to  the  coming  tempest  bow; 
Dear  mother,  'tis  thine  emblem  ;  dust 
Is  on  thy  brow. 

And  I  could  love  to  die  : 
To  leave  untasted  life's  dark,  bitter  streams : 
By  thee,  as  erst  in  childhood,  lie, 
And  share  thy  dreams. 


128 


GEORGE    D.   PRENTICE. 


[1830-40. 


And  must  I  linger  here, 
To  stain  the  plumage  of  my  sinless  years 
And  mourn  the  hopes  to  childhood  dear 
With  bitter  tears  ? 

Ay,  must  I  linger  here, 
A  lonely  branch  upon  a  withered  tree, 
Whose  last  frail  leaf,  untimely  sere, 
Went  down  with  thee  ? 

Oft,  from  life's  withered  bower, 
In  still  communion  with  the  past,  I  turn, 
And  muse  on  thee,  the  only  flower 
In  Memory's  urn. 

And,  when  the  evening  pale, 
Bows,  like  a  mourner,  on  the  dim, blue  wave, 
I  stray  to  hear  the  night-winds  wail 
Around  thy  grave. 

Where  is  thy  spirit  flown  ? 
I  gaze  above — thy  look  is  imaged  there ; 
I  listen — and  thy  gentle  tone 
Is  on  the  air. 

Oh,  come,  while  here  I  press 
My  brow  upon  thy  grave ;  and,  in  those  mild 
And  thrilling  notes  of  tenderness, 
Bless,  bless  thy  child ! 

Yes,  bless  thy  weeping  child ; 
And   o'er    thine    urn — Religion's    holiest 

shrine — 

Oh,  give  his  spirit,  undefiled, 
To  blend  with  thine. 


TO  MARY. 


IT  is  my  love's  last  lay ! — and  soon 
Its  echoes  will  have  died, 

And  thou  wilt  list  its  low,  wild  tones 
No  more,  pale  victim-bride ! 


I  would  not,  lovely  one,  that  thou 
Shouldst  wrong  the  heart  that  deems  thee 

now 

Its  glory  and  its  pride ; 
I  would  not  thou  shouldst  dim  with  tears 
The  vision  of  its  better  years. 

And  yet  I  love  thee !     Memory's  voice 

Comes  o'er  me,  like  the  tone 
Of  blossoms,  when  their  dewy  leaves 

In  autumn's  night-winds  moan. 
I  love  thee  still !     That  look  of  thine 
Deep  in  my  spirit  has  its  shrine, 

And  beautiful  and  lone ; 
And  there  it  glows — that  holy  form — 
The  rainbow  of  life's  evening  storm. 

And,  dear  one,  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 

So  pallid,  sweet,  and  frail, 
And  muse  upon  thy  cheek,  I  well 

Can  read  its  mournful  tale ; 
I  know  the  dews  of  memory  oft 
Are  falling,  beautiful  and  soft, 

Upon  love's  blossoms  pale ; 
I  know  that  tears  thou  fain  wouldst  hide 
Are  on  thy  lids,  sweet  victim-bride. 

I,  too,  have  wept.     Yon  moon's  pale  light 

Has  round  my  pillow  strayed, 
While  I  was  mourning  o'er  the  dreams 

That  blossomed  but  to  fade. 
The  memory  of  each  holy  eve, 
To  which  our  burning  spirits  cleave, 

Seems  like  some  star's  sweet  shade, 
That  once  shone  bright  and  pure  on  high, 
But  now  has  parted  from  the  sky. 

Immortal  visions  of  the  heart ! 

Again,  again  farewell ! 
I  will  not  listen  to  the  tones 

That  in  wild  music  swell 
From  the  dim  past.     Those  tones  now  fade 
And  leave  me  nothing  but  the  shade, 

The  cypress,  and  the  knell! 
Adieu — adieu  !     My  task  is  done ; 
And  now,  God  bless  thee,  gentle  one ! 


1830-40.] 


GEORGE   D.    PRENTICE. 


MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

ALL    day,    as    day   is   reckoned   on    the 

earth, 
I've   wandered    in  these   dim  and  awful 

aisles, 
Shut  from  the  blue  and  breezy  dome  of 

heaven, 
While  thoughts,  wild,  drear,  and  shadowy, 

have  swept 
Across  my  awe-struck  soul,  like  specters 

o'er 

The    wizard's    magic    glass,    or  thunder 
clouds 
O'er  the  blue  waters  of  the  deep.     And 

now 

I'll  sit  me  down  upon  yon  broken  rock 
To    muse   upon   the  strange    and  solemn 

things 
Of  this  mysterious  realm. 

All  day  my  steps 

Have  been  amid  the  beautiful,  the  wild, 
The  gloomy,  the  terrific.     Crystal  founts 
Almost  invisible  in  their  serene 
And    pure    transparency — high,    pillar'd 

domes 
With  stars  and  flowers  all  fretted  like  the 

halls 

Of   oriental  monarchs — rivers  dark 
And    drear   and    voiceless    as    oblivion's 

stream, 

That  flows  through  Death's  dim  vale  of  si 
lence — gulfs 
All  fathomless,  down  which  the  loosened 

rock 

Plunges  until  its  far-off  echoes  come 
Fainter  and  fainter  like  the  dying  roll 
Of  thunders  in  the  distance — Stygian  pools 
Whose  agitated  waves  give  back  a  sound 
Hollow  and  dismal,  like  the  sullen  roar 
In  the  volcano's  depths- — these,  these  have 

left 

Their  spell  upon  me,  and  their  memories 
Have  passed  into  my  spirit,  and  are  now 
Blent  with  my  being  till  they  seem  a  part 
Of  my  own  immortality. 


God's  hand, 

At  the  creation,  hollowed  out  this  vast 
Domain   of  darkness,  where  no  herb  nor 

flower 
E'er  sprang  amid  the  sands,  nor  dews  nor 

rains, 
Nor  blessed  sunbeams  fell  with  freshening 

power, 

Nor  gentle  breeze  its  Eden  message  told 
Amid  the  dreadful  gloom.     Six  thousand 

years 
Swept  o'er  the  earth  ere  human  footprints 

marked 

This  subterranean  desert.     Centuries 
Like  shadows  came  and  passed,  and  not  a 

sound 

Was  in  this  realm,  save  when  at  intervals, 
In  the  long  lapse  of  ages,  some  huge  mass 
Of  overhanging  rock  fell  thundering  down, 
Its  echoes  sounding  through  these  corridors 
A  moment,  and  then  dying  in  a  hush 
Of  silence,  such  as  brooded  o'er  the  earth 
When  earth  was  chaos.  The  great  Mas 
todon, 

The  dreaded  monster  of  the  elder  world, 
Passed  o'er  this  mighty    cavern,  and  his 

tread 

Bent  the  old  forest  oaks  like  fragile  reeds 
And  made  earth  tremble ;  armies  in  their 

pride 

Perchance  have  met  above  it  in  the  shock 
Of  war  with  shout  and  groan,  and  clarion 

blast, 
And   the   hoarse  echoes  of    the   thunder 

gun; 

The  storm,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  hurri 
cane 
Have  roared  above  it,  and   the   bursting 

cloud 

Sent  down  its  red  and  crashing  thunder 
bolt ; 
Earthquakes  have  trampled  o'er  it  in  their 

wrath, 
Rocking  earth's  surface  as  the  storm-wind 

rocks 
The  old  Atlantic ;  yet  no  sound  of  these 


130 


GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE. 


[1830-10. 


E'er  came  down  to  the  everlasting  depths 
Of  these  dark  solitudes. 

How  oft  we  gaze 

With  awe  or  admiration  on  the  new 
And  unfamiliar,  but  pass  coldly  by 
The  lovelier  and  the  mightier !    Wonder 
ful 

Is  this  lone  world  of  darkness  and  of  gloom, 
But  far  more  wonderful  yon  outer  world 
Lit   by  the   glorious  sun.     These  arches 

swell 

Sublime  in  lone  and  dim  magnificence. 
But  how  sublimer  God's  blue  canopy 
Beleaguered  with  his  burning  cherubim 
Keeping  their  watch  eternal !     Beautiful 
Are  all  the  thousand  snow-white  gems  that 

lie 

In  these  mysterious  chamber,  gleaming  out 
Amid  the  melancholy  gloom,  and  wild 
These  rocky  hills  and  cliffs,  and  gulfs,  but 

far 
More  beautiful  and  wild  the  things  that 

greet 
The  wanderer  in  our  world  of  light — the 

stars 

Floating  on  high  like  islands  of  the  blest — 
The  autumn  sunsets  glowing  like  the  gate 
Of  far-off  Paradise ;  the  gorgeous  clouds 
On  which  the  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky 
Meet  and  commingle  ;  earth's  unnumbered 

flowers 

All  turning  up  their  gentle  eyes  to  heaven  ; 
The  birds,  with  bright  wings  glancing  in 

the  sun, 

Filling  the  air  with  rainbow  miniatures  ; 
The  green  old  forests  surging  in  the  gale  ; 
The  everlasting  mountains,  on  whose  peaks 
The  setting  sun  burns  like  an  altar-flame  ; 
And  ocean,  like  a  pure  heart  rendering  back 
Heaven's  perfect  image,  or  in  his  wild  wrath 
Heaving  and  tossing  like  the  stormy  breast 
Of  a  chained  giant  in  his  agony. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE.* 

'Tis  Morn  : — the  sea  breeze  seems  to  bring 
Joy,  health,  and  freshness  on  its  wing ; 
Bright  flowers,  to  me  all  strange  and  new, 
Are  glittering  in  the  early  dew, 
And  perfumes  rise  from  every  grove, 
As  incense  to  the  clouds  that  move 
Like  spirits  o'er  yon  welkin  clear, — 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  not  here ! 

'Tis  Noon  : — a  calm,  unbroken  sleep 
Is  on  the  blue  waves  of  the  deep ; 
A  soft  haze,  like  a  fairy  dream, 
Is  floating  over  wood  and  stream, 
And  many  a  broad  magnolia  flower, 
Within  its  shadowy  woodland  bower, 
Is  gleaming  like  a  lovely  star, — 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  afar  ! 

'Tis  Eve :— on  earth  the  sunset  skies 
Are  painting  their  own  Eden  dyes ; 
The  stars  come  down  and  trembling  glow, 
Like  blossoms  on  the  waves  below, 
And  like  an  unseen  sprite,  the  breeze 
Seems  lingering  'midst  these  orange-trees, 
Breathing  its  music  round  the  spot, — 
But  I  am  sad — I  see  thee  not ! 

'Tis  Midnight : — with  a  soothing  spell 
The  far-off  tones  of  ocean  swell — 
Soft  as  a  mother's  cadence  mild, 
Low  bending  o'er  her  sleeping  child ; 
And  on  each  wandering  breeze  are  heard 
The  rich  notes  of  the  mocking-bird, 
In  many  a  wild  and  wondrous  lay, — 
But  I  am  sad — thou  art  away  ! 

I  sink  in  dreams : — low,  sweet,  and  clear, 
Thy  own  dear  voice  is  in  my  ear : — 
Around  my  cheek  thy  tresses  twine — 
Thy  own  loved  hand  is  clasped  in  mine — 
Thy  own  soft  lip  to  mine  is  pressed — 
Thy  head  is  pillowed  on  my  breast ; 
Oh,  I  have  all  my  heart  holds  dear, 
And  I  am  happy — thou  art  here ! 


*  Written  at  Biloxi. 


]  830- 40.] 


GEORGE    D.    PRENTICE. 


131 


TO  A  POETESS. 

I  TOO  would  kneel  before  thy  shrine, 
Young  minstrel  of  the  Eden-lyre, 

For  oh  !  to  me  each  word  of  thine 
Seems  radiant  with  a  soul  of  fire. 

I  love  to  watch  thy  fancy's  wing 
Upon  the  breath  of  beauty  rise, 

And,  bathed  in  glory's  sunbeams  spring 
To  hail  the  poet's  paradise. 

My  heart  is  bowed,  in  silence  bowed, 
Before  thy  spirit's  burning  gleams, 

As  on  my  view  in  glory  crowd 

The  visions  of  thy  sun-bright  dreams. 

Full  oft,  as  passion  wakes  thy  lyre, 

I  listen  to  its  music  sweet, 
Till  every  thought  is  touched  with  fire, 

And  heart  and  pulse  in  wildness  beat. 

All  nature  seems  more  beautiful, 

As  pictured  in  thy  song — her  bowers 

With  gentler  sounds  the  spirit  lull, 

And  winds  go  lightlier  o'er  the  flowers. 

The  spirit  of  the  evening  fills 

The  shutting  rose  with  softer  dew, 

A  brighter  dream  is  on  the  hills, 
And  on  the  waves  a  deeper  blue. 

With  lovelier  hue  at  twilight  hour, 
The  banner  of  the  sunset  gleams, 

And  gentle  birds  and  gentle  flowers 
Sink  softlier  to  their  blessed  dreams. 

The  rainbow  o'er  the  evening  sky 
With  brighter,  loftier  arch  is  thrown, 

And  the  lone  sea-shell's  mournful  sigh 
Is  swelling  in  a  wilder  tone. 

The  music-voice  of  childhood  flows 
More  ringingly  upon  the  air, 


And  with  a  heavenlier  fervor  glows 
The  eloquence  of  praise  and  prayer. 

The  lost  ones  that  we  loved  so  well, 
Come  back  to  our  deserted  bowers  ; 

Upon  the  breeze  their  voices  swell, 

And  their  dear  hands  are  clasped  in  ours. 

Thy  genius  wanders  wild  and  free 
'Mid  all  things  beautiful  and  bless'd, 

For  the  young  heart  is  like  the  sea, 

That  wears  heaven's  picture  on  its  breast. 

And  as  thy  muse  her  soul  of  fire 

In  high  and  glorious  song  is  breathing, 

Thy  hand  around  thy  country's  lyre 
A  deathless  coronal  is  wreathing. 


A  WISH. 

IN  Southern  seas,  there  is  an  isle, 
Where  earth  and  sky  forever  smile ; 
Where  storms  cast  not  their  somber  hue 
Upon  the  welkin's  holy  blue ; 
Where  clouds  of  blessed  incense  rise 
From  myriad  flowers  of  myriad  dyes, 
And  strange  bright  birds  glance  through 

the  bowers, 
Like  mingled  stars  or  mingled  flowers. 

Oh,  dear  one,  would  it  were  our  lot 

To  dwell  upon  that  lovely  spot, 

To   stray   through   woods   with   blossoms 

starred, 

Bright  as  the  dreams  of  seer  or  bard, 
To  hear  each  other's  whispered  words 
'Mid  the  wild  notes  of  tropic  birds, 
And  deem  our  lives  in  those  bright  bowers 
One  glorious  dream  of  love  and  flowers. 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  August,  1808.  His 
father  was  an  Irishman,  who  emigrated  from  his  native  country  because  he  had  been 
a  participant  in  the  rebellion,  on  account  of  which  Robert  Emmett  was  a  martyr. 
His  mother  was  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  band  of  "Jersey  Blues,"  distinguished  in  the 
War  for  American  Independence.  In  1816,  Mrs.  Gallagher,  then  a  widow,  removed, 
with  four  sons,  of  whom  William  was  the  third,  from  Philadelphia  to  Cincinnati.  He 
was  put  on  a  farm,  where  he  worked  three  years,  attending  a  district  school  three 
months  each  winter.  He  was  comparatively  an  industrious  pupil,  but  was  known  as 
a  boy  who  loved  to  hold  communion  with  trees,  rocks,  flowers,  and  brooks,  better  than 
to  con  lessons  or  recite  tasks  in  the  school-room.  In  1821,  William  was  apprenticed 
to  a  printer  in  Cincinnati.  He  was  distinguished  among  his  companions  as  a  student 
of  literature,  and  in  1824,  while  yet  an  apprentice,  published  for  several  months  a 
small  literary  paper,  the  contents  of  which  were  chiefly  from  his  pen.  He  became 
then  a  constant  contributor  to  several  journals,  writing  essays  and  poems  over  vari 
ous  pseudonymes.  In  1827,  Mr.  Gallagher  and  Otway  Curry — as  "Roderick"  and 
"  Abdallah  " — maintained  a  friendly  rivalry  in  the  columns  of  the  Cincinnati  Chron 
icle  and  Cincinnati  Sentinel,  which  was  the  occasion  of  much  inquiry  and  many  false 
charges  of  authorship. 

Mr.  Gallagher  was  not  known  as  a  writer  till  1828,  when,  during  a  journey  through 
Kentucky  and  Mississippi,  he  wrote  a  series  of  popular  letters,  which  were  published 
in  the  Cincinnati  Saturday  Evening  Chronicle.  Two  years  later  he  became  the 
editor  of  the  Backwoodsman,  published  at  Xenia,  Ohio,  a  vigorous  advocate  of  Henry 
Clay  as  a  candidate  for  President  of  the  United  States.  Literature  was,  however, 
more  congenial  than  politics ;  and  when,  in  1831,  John  H.  Wood,  at  that  time  a 
bookseller  in  Cincinnati,  projected  a  literary  periodical,  and  invited  Mr.  Gallagher  to 
take  the  editorial  charge  of  it,  the  invitation  was  promptly  accepted.  As  soon  as  the 
necessary  arrangements  were  completed,  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  the  fourth  literary 
paper  published  west  of  the  Alleghany  Mountains,  made  its  appearance.  It  was  in 
its  externals  superior  to  any  previous  periodical  of  that  city.  It  was  a  small  quarto 
of  eight  pages,  printed  semi-monthly  on  fine  paper  with  beautiful  type.  In  all  its 
departments  the  most  scrupulous  order  and  propriety  were  observed.  The  Mirror 
acquired  a  high  reputation,  and  its  circulation  in  the  Mississippi  Valley  was,  for  the 
period  in  which  it  flourished,  very  extensive.  At  the  beginning  of  the  third  year, 
Mr.  Gallagher  was  joined  in  the  enterprise  by  Thos.  H.  Shreve,  and  the  proprietor 
ship  as  well  as  the  editorship  of  the  paper  passed  into  the  hands  of  these  friends. 


1830-40.]  W  I  L  L  I  A  M    D .    G  A  L  L  A  G  II  K  R .  1  :i3 

The  first  number  of  the  Mirror,  enlarged  and  changed  to  a  weekly,  was  issued  by 
"  Shreve  &  Gallagher,"  in  November,  1833.  The  new  proprietors,  young  and  full  of 
hope,  went  to  work  industriously  to  build  up  a  lofty  reputation  for  their  paper.  It  is 
true  that  the  "  patronage  "  given  to  the  Mirror  at  first,  was  wholly  inadequate  to  its 
support ;  but  the  editors  trusted  that  a  quick-coming  future  would  amply  remunerate 
them  for  their  outlay  of  money  and  labor.  Each  week  brought  considerable  accessions 
to  their  list  of  subscribers.  Midnight  often  found  the  publishers  busily  engaged,  get 
ting  off  their  paper  to  its  subscribers,  who  were  enjoying  comfortable  slumbers,  and 
not  dreaming  of  paying  the  printer.  But  they  labored  in  hope,  arid  thus  buoyed  up 
they  continued  to  work  manfully  with  both  heads  and  hands,  firm  in  the  faith  that 
money  and  reputation  would  come.  At  the  expiration  of  the  first  year  they  found 
themselves  largely  out  of  pocket ;  but  with  subscription  lists  on  which  were  the  names 
of  persons  in  various  States  of  the  Confederacy,  they  entered  on  the  second  year 
with  flattering  prospects.  In  April,  1835,  the  Chronicle,  edited  at  that  time  by  James 
H.  Perkins,  was  purchased  by  him  and  merged  into  the  Mirror,  which  was  thence 
forth  published  by  T.  H.  Shreve  &  Co.,  and  edited  by  Gallagher,  Shreve  and  Per 
kins.  It  was  continued  by  them  until  the  close  of  the  year,  when,  from  ill  health  and 
other  considerations,  they  saw  fit  to  accept  an  offer  for  the  concern,  and  sold  it  to 
James  B.  Marshall,  who  changed  the  name  of  the  paper  to  The  Buckeye.  Mr.  M. 
edited  and  published  it  for  three  months,  and  then  disposed  of  it  to  Flash,  Ryder  & 
Co.,  who  kept  a  bookstore  on  Third  street,  which  was  then  a  place  of  resort  for  the 
literati  of  the  Queen  City.  The  new  proprietors  secured  the  services  of  Mr.  Galla 
gher  and  Mr.  Shreve  as  editors,  and  changed  the  name  of  the  paper  back  to  that  of  the 
Cincinnati  Mirror.  It  was  not  long  before,  owing  to  some  disagreement  between  the 
editors  and  proprietors,  touching  the  conduct  of  the  paper,  the  former  vacated  their 
places.  They  were  succeeded  by  J.  Reese  Fry,  who  conducted  the  Mirror  for  a  few 
months,  when  it  was  abandoned. 

In  June,  1836,  Mr.  Gallagher  became  the  editor  of  the  Western  Literary  Journal 
and  Monthly  Review — Smith  and  Day  publishers.  It  was  a  handsomely  printed  mag 
azine  of  forty-eight  pages.  The  publishers  were  enterprising — the  editor  had  experi 
ence — the  chief  writers  of  the  West  sent  him  articles,  but  the  fates  were  against  suc 
cess,  and,  in  1837,  the  Literary  Journal  was  discontinued. 

In  the  early  part  of  1835,  Mr.  Gallagher  published  "  Erato  No.  I." — a  duodecimo 
pamphlet  of  thirty-six  pages.  It  was  dedicated  to  Timothy  Flint,  and  bore  the  im 
print  of  Alexander  Flash.  The  chief  poem  was  entitled  "  The  Penitent,  a  Metrical 
Tale."  Among  the  minor  poems  were  "The  Wreck  of  the  Hornet"  (the  first  poem 
from  Mr.  Gallagher's  pen  which  attracted  general  public  attention),  "  Eve's  Banish 
ment,"  and  "  To  my  Mother."  A  flattering  reception  was  given  "  Erato,"  and  in  August, 
1835,  Mr.  Gallagher  made  a  second  selection  from  the  contents  of  his  literary  wallet, 
and  "  Erato  No.  II.,"  containing  sixty  pages,  was  published  by  Mr.  Flash.  The  princi 
pal  poem  was  "  The  Conqueror,  a  Vision."  Among  the  poems  in  "  Erato  No.  II.," 
which  have  come  down  to  the  present  generation,  were  "  August,"  and  "  The  Mount 
ain  Paths."  "Erato  No.  III.,"  containing  sixty  pages,  though  published  by  Alexander 


134  WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER.  [1830-40. 

Flash  at  Cincinnati,  was  printed  at  the  City  Gazette  office,  Louisville,  Kentucky,  in 
May,  1837.     In  the  preface,  Mr.  Gallagher  said : 

This  volume  contains  as  its  leading  piece  4i  Cadwallen,  a  Tale  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground," 
and  closes  the  series.  With  it  terminates,  likewise,  at  least  for  a  time,  the  writer's  career  as  an 
aspirant  for  poetic  honors.  If  his  trifles  are  to  be  remembered  a  little  while,  there  are  already 
enough  of  them  ;  if  they  are  to  be  forgotten  at  once,  too  many.  Poesy  has  been  solely  a  matter  of 
love  with  him,  and  he  conceives  that  he  has  done  quite  enough  to  determine  whether  he  has  "  loved 
wisely.'' 

"  May  "  and  "  The  Mothers  of  the  West "  were  among  the  miscellaneous  poems  of 
"  Erato  No.  III."  It  was  very  favorably  received.  Its  author,  by  good  authority, 
Kast  as  well  as  West,  was  well  assured  that  he  had  "  loved  wisely ;"  but  literary 
labors,  however  industriously  pursued,  were  not  remunerative  in  Ohio  in  1837,  and 
Mr.  Gallagher  adhered  to  his  resolution  to  abandon  poetic  labors,  "  at  least  lor  a 
time."  Soon  after  the  publication  of  "  Erato  No.  III.,"  he  became  associated  with 
his  brother  John  M.,  in  the  management  of  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  a  daily  Whig 
paper  at  Columbus.  Though  busily  occupied  in  that  capacity,  and  at  the  same  time 
legislative  correspondent  of  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  he  engaged,  soon  after  his  re 
moval  to  Columbus,  with  Otway  Curry  in  the  publication  of  a  magazine,  entitled 
The  Hesperian,  a  Monthly  Miscellany  of  General  Literature.  The  first  number  ap 
peared  in  May,  1838.  Three  volumes  at  $2.50  a  volume,  running  through  a  period 
of  eighteen  months,  were  published;  the  second  and  third  volumes  Mr.  Galla 
gher  conducted  alone.  The  Hesperian  was  valued  highly  for  its  critical  and  histor 
ical  articles,  mainly  written  by  the  editor,  and  for  its  poetic  and  novelette  depart 
ments,  which  were  filled  with  original  contributions  from  writers  who  have  now 
national  reputations  ;  among  whom  may  be  mentioned  Otway  Curry,  Frederick  W. 
Thomas,  S.  P.  Hildreth,  George  D.  Prentice,  Laura  M.  Thurston,  Amelia  B.  Welby, 
James  W.  Ward,  Julia  L.  Dumont,  Thomas  H.  Shreve,  James  H.  Perkins,  and 
Daniel  Drake.  The  subscription  list  was  larger  than  had  been  secured  by  any  of  its 
predecessors,  but  not  enough  to  support  it ;  and  again  Mr.  Gallagher  was  led  from  the 
pursuit  of  literature  to  the  record  and  discussion  of  political  doctrines  and  movements. 
He  was  invited  by  Charles  Hammond  to  assist  him  in  the  editing  of  the  Cincinnati 
Gazette,  the  oldest,  most  successful,  and  then  ablest  daily  paper  in  the  West.  He  be 
came  an  editor  of  the  Gazette  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1839,  and  continued  to  give 
character  to  its  literary  departments,  and  to  efficiently  assist  in  its  political  conduct 
(with  the  exception  of  one  year,  when  he  conducted  a  penny  daily  paper  called  The 
Message}  till  1850.  In  1839,  the  Western  College  of  Teachers  passed  a  resolution 
of  thanks  to  Mr.  Gallagher  for  his  earnest  advocacy,  as  an  editor,  of  popular  educa 
tion.  In  1841,  he  edited  a  volume  entitled  "The  Poetical  Literature  of  the  West" 
— containing  selections  from  the  writings  of  all  the  poets  then  generally  known  in  the 
Mississippi  Valley.  It  was  a  duodecimo  of  two  hundred  and  sixty-four  pages.  U. 
P.  James,  a  gentleman  who  has  done  much  to  encourage  Western  Literature,  was  the 
publisher.  Thirty-eight  writers  were  represented — several  of  whom,  though  worthy 
of  more  respect,  are  known  now  as  poets  chiefly  because  their  metrical  compositions 


1830-40.]  WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER.  135 

were  then  rescued  from  the  obscurity  of  suspended  newspapers  and  magazines,  in 
which  their  paternity  had  never  been  acknowledged.  In  1842,  Mr.  Gallagher  was 
nominated  by  the  Whigs  of  Hamilton  county,  Ohio,  as  a  candidate  for  the  Legisla 
ture,  but  declined  to  run.  In  1849,  he  was  the  President  of  the  Ohio  Historical  and 
Philosophical  Society,  and  delivered  the  Annual  Address  on  the  u  Progress  and  Re 
sources  of  the  North- West " — a  discourse  which  is  valuable  to  every  student  of  West 
ern  history. 

In  the  year  1850,  while  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Daily  Cincinnati  Gazette,  Mr. 
Gallagher  proceeded  to  Washington,  at  the  special  invitation  of  Thomas  Corwin,  and 
took  a  confidential  position  under  that  gentleman  in  the  Treasury  Department.  A 
continuous  connection  with  the  Western  newspaper  and  periodical  press,  of  full 
twenty  years  in  extent,  was  then  severed ;  and  although  Mr.  Gallagher  remained  in 
Washington  City  less  than  three  years,  and  then  returned  to  the  West,  it  has  not  since 
been  resumed,  except  for  a  short  period  in  1854,  when  he  was  one  of  the  editors  and 
proprietors  of  the  Louisville  Courier. 

A  few  months  after  resuming  his  residence  in  the  West,  Mr.  Gallagher  moved 
upon  a  handsome  farm  which  he  had  purchased  in  Kentucky,  about  sixteen  miles  from 
the  city  of  Louisville,  on  the  Louisville  and  Lexington  Railroad ;  and  there,  during 
the  last  five  or  six  years,  his  time  has  been  zealously  devoted  to  agricultural  and 
horticultural  pursuits — pursuits  that  were  the  delight  of  his  early  life,  and  are  now  the 
solace  and  pride  of  his  mature  years. 

While  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Gallagher's  pen  has  not  been  idle.  Several  of  the  highest 
prizes  in  agricultural  literature,  we  notice  by  the  official  reports,  have  recently  fallen 
to  his  share,  one  of  which  was  awarded  for  an  elaborate  essay  on  the  interesting  and 
congenial  subject  of  "  Fruit  Culture  in  the  Ohio  Valley."  He  has,  within  the  same 
time,  written  extensively  for  agricultural  papers,  and  is  now  a  regularly  engaged  con 
tributor  for  two  journals  of  that  class.  He  has  also  projected  several  works  connected 
with  History,  Biography,  and  Progress  in  the  West,  and  is  collecting  materials  for  "A 
Social  and  Statistical  View  of  the  Mississippi  Valley,"  from  the  period  of  its  first 
settlement  to  the  present  day.  This  will  be  a  large  and  comprehensive  volume,  and 
is  designed  for  publication  immediately  after  the  completion  of  the  national  census  for 
the  year  1860. 

During  his  residence  in  Washington,  Mr.  Gallagher's  time  was  too  much  taken  up 
witli  the  duties  of  his  position  for  the  frequent  indulgence  of  his  literary  tastes.  The 
poem  entitled  "  Noctes  Divinorum,"  is  the  only  production  of  that  period  of  which  we 
have  any  knowledge.  It  was  almost  an  improvisation,  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue, 
transferred  to  paper  immediately  after  witnessing  one  of  those  scenes  of  sin  and  suf 
fering  which  are  becoming  nearly  as  common  in  the  larger  cities  of  the  United  States 
as  in  the  corrupt  capitals  of  Europe. 

Since  his  return  to  the  West,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1852,  Mr.  Gallagher  has 
published  but  little  in  the  department  of  Belles-Lettres  proper.  Preserving  an  almost 
unbroken  silence,  through  a  long  self-imposed  seclusion,  his  name  has  died  into  an 


13G  WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER.  [1830-40. 

echo,  or  become  a  rare  sound  in  the  homes  where  it  was  once  "familiar  as  a  house 
hold  word."  But,  though  studiously  declining  all  proffers  of  engagements  in  the  spe 
cial  department  of  literature  mentioned,  Mr.  Gallagher  has  not  turned  his  face  from 
the  deep  fountains  and  the  babbling  brooks  of  Song.  He  has  been  dividing  such 
leisure  as  he  could  find  amid  his  other  pursuits,  between  a  deliberate  and  severe 
revision  of  what  he  has  already  written,  and  the  completion  of  "Miami  Woods" — 
a  poem  of  considerable  compass,  in  which  his  poetical  fame,  whatever  it  may  be,  will 
probably  culminate.  This  work  of  revision  and  completion,  we  understand,  is  now 
ended:  but  when  we  are  to  look  for  the  "forthcoming  volume,"  which  has  been  par 
tially  promised  every  year  for  the  last  five,  we  have  not  the  faintest  idea. 

"Miami  Woods"  was  begun  in  1839,  and  finished  in  1857.  Any  thing  more  than 
this,  except  that  it  measures  the  heart-beats  of  the  author  through  the  intervening 
years,  and  sings 

"A  solitary  sorrow,  antheming 
A  lonely  grief," 

has  not  been  made  known  of  it.  From  the  introductory  part,  an  extract  was  printed 
in  the  "  Selections  from  the  Poetical  Literature  of  the  West."  This  has  been  often 
republished,  in  different  shapes,  as  one  of  the  most  characteristic  specimens  of  the 
author's  writings. 

The  present  may  be  a  proper  time  and  place  to  correct  an  error  that  has  crept  into 
most  of  the  "Collections"  and  "Cyclopedias"  that  have  set  forth  the  achievements 
of  American  writers.  Mr.  Gallagher  is  represented  to  have  published  a  collection 
of  his  poems  in  the  year  1846.  This  is  a  mistake,  founded  perhaps  on  one  of  his 
unredeemed  promises. 

As  an  editor,  Mr.  Gallagher  was  distinguished  for  zeal  in  the  encouragement  of  local 
literary  talent,  and  for  earnest  advocacy  of  the  cause  of  popular  education,  and  of  the 
temperance  and  other  moral  reforms,  as  well  as  for  vigorous  labors  designed  to  pre 
serve  the  fading  records  of  the  early  history  of  the  Ohio  Valley,  and  to  make  known 
its  capacities  and  the  opportunities  it  afforded  immigrants.  His  earlier  poems  are 
memorable  for  a  graphic  power,  by  which  the  rivers  and  valleys  of  the  West,  the 
perils  of  the  pioneers  and  the  trials  of  the  early  settlers  are  described ;  his  later  ones 
are  pervaded  with  an  earnest  humanitary  spirit,  which  has  won  for  several  of  them  as 
wide  a  circulation  as  the  American  periodical  press  can  give,  and  has  secured  their 
publication  in  nearly  all  the  common  school  readers  that  have  been  published  during 
the  last  ten  years. 

Mr.  Gallagher  was  married  to  Miss  Adamson  of  Cincinnati,  in  1831,  and  is  the 
father  of  nine  children,  of  whom  one  boy  and  four  girls  are  living. 

The  poem,  hereafter  quoted,  entitled  "My  Fiftieth  Year,"  was  contributed  in 
manuscript  for  this  volume.  It  shows  that  the  spirit  and  expression  of  poetry,  which 
won  its  author  warm  admirers  thirty  years  ago,  matured  and  richly  cultivated,  are  at 
his  command  now. 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


137 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  WEST.* 

THE  Autumn  time  is  with  us! — Its   ap 
proach 

Was  heralded,  not  many  days  ago, 
By  hazy  skies,  that  vail'd  the  brazen  sun, 
And  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling 

corn, 

And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drow 
sily 

By  pendent  clusters  of  empurpling  grapes, 
Swinging  upon  the  vine.  And  now,  'tis 

here! 
And  what  a  change  hath  pass'd  upon  the 

face 

Of  Nature,  where  the  waving  forest  spreads, 
Then  robed  in  deepest  green !  All  through 

the  night 

The  subtle  frost  hath  plied  its  mystic  art ; 
And   in   the    day   the   golden   sun    hath 

wrought 
True  wonders  ;  and  the  winds  of  morn  and 

even 

Have  touched  with  magic  breath  the  chang 
ing  leaves. 

And  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
Across  the  varied  landscape,  circling  far, 
What  gorgeousness,  what  blazonry,  what 

pomp 

Of  colors,  bursts  upon  the  ravish'd  sight ! 
Here,  where  the  maple  rears  its  yellow 

crest, 

A  golden  glory  ;  yonder  where  the  oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  ash 
Is  girt  with  flame-like  parasite,  and  broad 
The  dogwood  spreads   beneath,  a  rolling 

flood 

Of  deepest  crimson  ;  and  afar  where  looms 
The  gnarled  gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red  ! 
****** 

High  o'erhead, 

Seeking  the  sedjry  brinks  of  still  lagoons 
That  bask  in  Southern  suns  the  winter  thro', 


*From  "Miami  Woods." 


Sails  tireless  the  unerring  water-fowl, 
Screaming    among   the   cloud-racks.      Oft 

from  where, 

In  bushy  covert  hid,  the  partridge  stands, 
Bursts  suddenly   the    whistle,   clear    and 

loud, 

Far  echoing  through  the  dim  wood's  fret 
ted  aisles. 
Deep   murmurs   from  the  trees,  bending 

with  brown 

And  ripened  mast,  are  interrupted  now 
By  sounds  of  dropping  nuts ;  and  warily 
The  turkey  from  the  thicket  comes,  and 

swift 
As    flies    an    arrow   darts    the   pheasant 

down, 

To  batten  on  the  autumn ;  and  the  air, 
At  times,  is  darkened  by  a  sudden  rush 
Of  myriad  wings,  as  the  wild-pigeon  leads 
His  squadrons  to  the  banquet.     Far  away, 
Where  the  pawpaw  its   mellow   fruitage 

yields, 
And  thick,  dark  clusters  of  the  wild  grape 

hang, 
The   merry  laugh  of  childhood,  and  the 

shout 

Of  truant  school-boy,  ring  upon  the  air. 

****** 

End  of  the  vernal  year ! — The  flower 

hath  closed 

And  cast  its  petals,  and  the  naked  stalk 
Stands  shriveling  in  the  frost ;  the  feath 
ered  grass 

Is  heavy  in  the  head ;  the  painted  leaf 
Flies  twittering  on  the  wind ;  and  to  the 

earth 
Falls    the    brown    nut,  with   melancholy 

sound. 
Yet  the  low,  moaning  autumn  wind,  that 

sweeps 
The    seeded    grass  and   lately-blossoming 

flower, 

Bears  the  light  germs  of  future  life  away, 
And  sows  them  by  the  gliding  rivulet, 
And  o'er  the  plain,  and  on  the  mountain 

side, 


138 


WILLIAM    D .    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


To  clothe  anew   the  earth,  when   comes 

again 
The  quickening  breath  of  spring.     And 

on  the  place 
Where  fall  the   ripened   nuts,  the  frosty 

night 
Will  heap  the  stricken  leaves ;  and  thence 

shall  spring, 

In  many  an  after-age,  another  growth 
Of   .-lately  trees,  when  those  around  me 

now, 

Fallen  with  eld,  shall  moulder,  and  enrich 
The  ground  that  now  sustains  their  lofty 

pride. 

Changing,  forever  changing !     So  depart 
The  glories  of  the  old  majestic  wood  ; 
So  puss  the  pride  and  garniture  of  fields, 
The  growth   of  ages,  and  the   bloom  of 

days, 

Into  the.  dust  of  centuries ;  and  so 
Are  both  renewed.     The  scattered  tribes 

of  men, 

The  generations  of  the  populous  earth, 
All  have  their  seasons  too.     And  jocund 

youth 
Is  the  green  spring-time — manhood's  lusty 

strength 

Is  the  maturing  summer — hoary  age 
Types  well  the  autumn  of  the  year — and 

death 

Is  the  real  winter,  which  forecloses  all. 
And  shall  the  forests  have  another  Spring, 
And    shall    the    fields    another     garland 

wear, 
And  shall  the  worm  come  forth,  renewed 

in  life, 
And  clothed    upon  with    beauty,  and  not 

man  ? 

No! — in  the  Book  before  me  now,  I  read 
Another  language,  and  my  faith  is  sure, 
That  though  the  chains  of  death  may  hold 

it  long, 
This    mortal    will    o'ermaster    them,    and 

break 
Away,  and  put  on  immortality. 


AUGUST. 

DUST  on  thy  mantle !  dust, 
Bright  Summer,  on  thy  livery  of  green  ! 
A  tarnish,  as  of  rust, 
Dims  thy  late-brilliant  sheen  : 
And  thy  young  glories — leaf,  and  bud,  and 

flower — 
Change  cometh  over  them  with  every  hour. 

Thee  hath  the  August  sun 
Looked  on  with  hot,  and  fierce,  and  brassy 

face : 

And  still  and  lazily  run, 
Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 
The  halt-dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  gladness  up,  as  on  they  went. 

Flame-like,  the  long  mid-day — 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  hath 

stirr'd 

The  down  upon  the  spray, 
Where  rests  the  panting  bird, 
Dozing  away  the  hot  and  tedious  noon, 
With  fitful  twitter,  sadly  out  of  tune. 

Seeds  in  the  sultry  air, 
And  gossamer  web-work  on  the  sleeping 

trees! 

E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 
Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  unfreshen- 

ing  West, 
Partake  the  general  languor,  and  deep  rest. 

Happy,  as  man  may  be, 
Stretch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  bean-vine 

bovver, 

While  the  voluptuous  bee 
Robs  each  surrounding  flower, 
And  prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his 

breast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noonday  rest. 

Against  the  hazy  sky 
The  thin  and  fleecy  clouds,  unmoving,  rest. 
Beneath  them  far,  yet  high 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


139 


In  the  dim,  distant  West, 
The   vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion- 
fare, 
Sails,  slowly  circling  through  the  sunny  air. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
Repose  the  patient  cow,  and  toil-worn  ox ; 
Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 
Sheltered  by  jutting  rocks  : 
The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourg'd  and  restless, 

rush 

Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to 
bush. 

Tediously  pass  the  hours, 
And  vegetation  wilts,  with  blistered  root — 
And  droop  the  thirsting  flow'rs, 
Where  the  slant  sunbeams  shoot: 
But  of  each  tall  old  tree,  the  lengthening 

line, 

Slow-creeping  eastward,  marks  the  day's 
decline. 

Faster,  along  the  plain, 
Moves  now  the  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's 

edge: 

The  kine  are  forth  again, 
Birds  flitter  in  the  hedge. 
Now  in  the  molten  West  sinks  the  hot  sun. 
Welcome,  mild  eve  ! — the   sultry  day   is 
done. 

Pleasantly  comest  thou, 
Dew  of  the  evening,  to  the  crisp'd-up  grass ; 

And  the  curl'd  corn-blades  bow, 

As  the  light  breezes  pass, 
That  their  parch'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and 

expand, 
Thou  sweet  reviver  of  the  fevered  land. 

So,  to  the  thirsting  soul, 
Cometh  the  dew  of  the  Almighty's  love ; 

And  the  scathed  heart,  made  whole, 

Turneth  in  joy  above, 
To  where  the  spirit  freely  may  expand, 
And   rove,  untrammel'd,  in  that    "better 
land." 


MAY. 

WOULD  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  ever-merry  May ! 

Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers  ; 

Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet-slippered,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine : 

Merry,  ever-merry  May, 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye  ! 

Out  beneath  thy  morning  sky ! 

Dian's  bow  still  hangs  on  high  ; 

And  in  the  blue  depths  afar, 

Glimmers,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star. 

Diamonds  robe  the  bending  grass, 

Glistening  earl}'  flowers  among — 
Monad's  world,  and  fairy's  glass, 
Bathing  fount  for  wandering  sprite — 

By  mysterious  fingers  hung, 
In  the  lone  and  quiet  night. 
Now  the  freshening  breezes  pass — 
Gathering,  as  they  steal  along, 
Rich  perfume,  and  matin  song — 
And  quickly  to  destruction  hurl'd 
Is  fairy's  diamond  glass,  and  monad's  dew- 
drop  world. 

Lo  !  yon  cloud,  which  hung  but  now 
Black  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Threatening  the  green  earth  with  storm — 
See !  it  heaves  its  giant  form, 
And,  ever  changing  shape  and  hue, 
But  still  presenting  something  new, 
Moves  slowly  up,  and  spreading  rolls  away 
Toward  the  rich  purple  streaks  that  usher 

in  the  day  ; 

Bright'ning,  as  it  onward  goes, 
Until  its  very  center  glows 
With  the  warm,  cheering  light,  the  coming 

sun  bestows : 

As  the  passing  Christian's  soul, 
Nearing  the  celestial  goal, 
Bright  and    brighter    grows,  till    God  il 
lumes  the  Whole. 


140 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


Out  beneath  thy  noontide  sky ! 
On  a  shady  slope  I  lie, 

Giving  fancy  ample  play : 
And  there's  not  more  blest  than  I, 

One  of  Adam's  race  to-day. 
Out  beneath  thy  noontide  sky  ! 
Earth,  how  beautiful ! — how  clear 
Of  cloud  or  mist  the  atmosphere ! 
What  a  glory  greets  the  eye  ! 
What  a  calm,  or  quiet  stir, 
Steals  o'er  Nature's  worshiper — 
Silent,  yet  so  eloquent, 
That  we  feel  'tis  heaven-sent — 
Waking  thoughts  that  long  have  slumber'd 
Passion-dimm'd  and  earth-encumber'd — 
Bearing  soul  and  sense  away, 
To  revel  in  the  Perfect  Day 
That  'waits  us,  when  we  shall  for  aye 
Discard  this  darksome  dust — this  prison- 
house  of  clay ! 

Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky ! 
Not  a  breeze  that  wanders  by 
But  hath  swept  the  green  earth's  bosom — 
Rifling  the  rich  grape-vine  blossom, 
Dallying  with  the  simplest  flower 
In  mossy  nook  and  rosy  bower — 
To  the  perfum'd  green-house  straying, 
And  with  rich  exotics  playing — 
Then,  unsated,  sweeping  over 
Banks  of  thyme,  and  fields  of  clover ! 
Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky ! 
Groups  of  children  caper  by, 
Crown'd  with  flowers,  and  rush  along 
With  joyous  laugh,  and  shout,  and  song. 
Flashing  eye,  and  radiant  cheek, 
Spirits  all  unsunn'd  bespeak. 
They  are  in  Life's  May-month  hours — 
And  those  wild    bursts  of  joy,  what  are 
they  but  Life's  flowers  ? 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 
Merry,  ever-merry  May ! 
Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade  and  showers, 
Burning  buds,  and  breathing  flowers  ; 
Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 
Violet-slippered,  rainbow-crested ; 


Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 
Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine : 
Merry,  ever-merry  May, 
Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye ! 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  THE  WEST. 

THE  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land! 

Stout-hearted  dames  were  they  ; 
With  nerve  to  wield  the  battle-brand, 

And  join  the  border-fray. 
Our  rough  land  had  no  braver, 

In  its  days  of  blood  and  strife — 
Aye  ready  for  severest  toil, 

Aye  free  to  peril  life. 

The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

On  old  Kan-tuc-kee's  soil, 
How  shared  they,  with  each  dauntless 
band, 

War's  tempest  and  Life's  toil ! 
They  shrank  not  from  the  foeman — 

They  quailed  not  in  the  fight — 
But  cheered  their  husbands  through  tho 
day, 

And  soothed  them  through  the  night. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

Their  bosoms  pillowed  men! 
And  proud  were  they  by  such  to  stand, 

In  hammock,  fort,  or  glen. 
To  load  the  sure  old  rifle — 

To  run  the  leaden  ball — 
To  watch  a  battling  husband's  place, 

And  fill  it  should  he  fall. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

Such  were  their  daily  deeds. 
Their  monument ! — where  does  it  stand? 

Their  epitaph  ! — who  reads  ? 
No  braver  dames  had  Sparta, 

No  nobler  matrons  Rome — 
Yet  who  or  lauds  or  honors  them, 

E'en  in  their  own  green  home  ! 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM   D .   GALLAGHER. 


141 


The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

They  sleep  in  unknown  graves : 
And  had  they  borne  and  nursed  a  band 

Of  ingrates,  or  of  slaves, 
They  had  not  been  more  neglected ! 

But  their  graves  shall  yet  be  found. 
And  their  monuments  dot  here  and  there 

"  The  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground." 


SONG  OF  THE  PIONEERS. 

A  SONG  for  the  early  times  out  West, 

And  our  green  old  forest  home. 
Whose  pleasant  memories  freshly  yet 

Across  the  bosom  come  : 
A  song  for  the  free  and  gladsome  life, 

In  those  early  days  we  led, 
With  a  teeming  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  a  smiling  Heav'n  o'erliead  ! 
Oh,  the  waves  of  life  danced  merrily, 

And  had  a  joyous  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

The  hunt,  the  shot,  the  glorious  chase, 

The  captur'd  elk,  or  deer ; 
The  camp,  the  big,  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer : — 
The  sweet,  sound  sleep,  at  dead  of  night, 

By  our  camp-fire,  blazing  high — 
Unbroken  by  the  wolf's  long  howl, 

And  the  panther  springing  by. 
Oh,  merrily  pass'd  the  time,  despite 

Our  wily  Indian  foe, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

We  shunn'd  not  labor  :  when  'twas  due 
We  wrought  with  right  good  will ; 

And  for  the  homes  we  won  for  them, 
Our  children  bless  us  still. 

We  lived  not  hermit  lives,  but  oft 
In  social  converse  met ; 


And  fires  of  love  were  kindled  then, 

That  burn  on  warmly  yet. 
Oh,  pleasantly  the  stream  of  life 

Pursued  its  constant  flow, 
[n  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

We  felt  that  we  were  fellow-men ; 

We  felt  we  were  a  band, 
Sustain'd  here  in  the  wilderness 

By  Heaven's  upholding  hand. 
And  when  the  solemn  Sabbath  came, 

We  gathered  in  the  wood, 
And  lifted  up  our  hearts  in  prayer 

To  God,  the  only  Good. 
Our  temples  then  were  earth  and  sky; 

None  others  did  we  know, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

Our  forest  life  was  rough  and  rude, 

And  dangers  clos'd  us  round ; 
But  here,  amid  the  green  old  trees, 

Freedom  was  sought  and  found. 
Oft  through  our  dwellings  wint'ry  blasts 

Would  rush  with  shriek  and  moan; 
We  cared  not — though  they  were  but  frail, 

We  felt  they  were  our  own ! 
Oh,  free  and  manly  lives  we  led, 

'Mid  verdure,  or 'mid  snow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

But  now  our  course  of  life  is  short ; 

And  as,  from  day  to  day, 
We're  walking  on  with  halting  step, 

And  fainting  by  the  way, 
Another  Land  more  bright  than  this, 

To  our  dim  sight  appears, 
And  on  our  way  to  it  we'll  soon 

Again  be  pioneers ! 
Yet  while  we  linger,  we  may  all 

A  backward  glance  still  throw, 
To  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 


142 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


TRUTH  AND  FREEDOM. 

Ox  the  page  that  is  Immortal, 
W<-  the  brilliant  promise  sec: 

"  Ye  shall  know  the  Truth,  my  people, 
And  its  might  shall  make  you  free ! " 

For  the  Truth,  then,  let  us  battle, 

Whatsoever  fate  betide ! 
Long  the  boast  that  we  are  Freemen, 

We  have  made,  and  published  wide. 

He  who  has  the  Truth,  and  keeps  it, 
Keeps  what  not  to  him  belongs ; 

But  performs  a  selfish  action, 
That  his  fellow  mortal  wrongs. 

He  who  seeks  the  Truth,  and  trembles 
At  the  dangers  he  must  brave, 

Is  not  fit  to  be  a  Freeman : 
He,  at  best,  is  but  a  slave. 

He  who  hears  the  Truth,  and  places 
Its  high  promptings  under  ban, 

Loud  may  boast  of  all  that's  manly, 
But  can  never  be  a  Man. 

Friend,  this  simple  lay  who  readest, 
Be  not  thou  like  either  them, — 

But  to  Truth  give  utmost  freedom, 
And  the.  tide  it  raises,  stem. 

Bold  in  speech,  and  bold  in  action, 
Be  forever  ! — Time  will  test, 

Of  the  free-souled  and  the  slavish, 
Which  fulfills  life's  mission  best. 

Be  thou  like  the  noble  Ancient — 
S'-orn  the  threat  that  bids  thee  fear; 

Speak  ! — no  matter  what  betide  thee  ; 
Let  them  strike,  but  make  them  hear ! 

Be  thou  like  the  first  Apostles — 

I>e  thou  like  heroic  Paul ; 
If  a  free  thought  seek  expression, 

Speak  it  boldly !  speak  it  all ! 


Face  thine  enemies — accusers  ; 

Scorn  the  prison,  rack,  or  rod ! 
And,  if  thou  hast  Truth  to  utter, 

Speak !  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 


THE  LABORER. 

STAND  up — erect !     Thou  hast  the  form, 
And  likeness  of  thy  God  ! — who  more? 

A  soul  as  dauntless  'mid  the  storm 

Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 
And  pure,  as  breast  e'er  bore. 

What  then  ? — Thou  art  as  true  a  Man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among ; 
As  much  a  part  of  the  Great  Plan 
That  with  creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ? — the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 
The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 
With  proud  step  and  averted  eye  ? 
Nay  !  nurse  not  such  belief. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 

What   were  the   proud  one's  scorn   to 

thee? 

A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No  : — uncurb'd  passions — low  desires — 

Absence  of  noble  self-respect — 
Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 
Forever,  till  thus  check'd  : 

These  are  thine  enemies — thy  worst: 
They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot — 

Thy  labor  and  thy  life  accurst. 

Oh,  stand  erect !  and  from  them  burst ! 
And  longer  suffer  not ! 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D.GALLAGHER. 


143 


Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy ! 

The  great ! — what  better  they  than  thou  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free  ? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 


True,  wealth  thou  hast  not :  'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place  ;  uncertain  as  the  wind ! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both — a  noble  mind. 


With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 
True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then — that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod ! 


THE  LAND  OF  LIFE. 

I  WANDER  ever  in  a  land  of  dreams, 
Where  flowers  perpetual  bloom  about 

my  way, 
And  where  faint  murmurs  of  meandering 

streams 

Open  and  close  the  glory  of  each  day : — 

Cool,  spicy  airs  upon  my  temples  play  ; 

Wild,  ravishing  songs  of  birds  enchant  my 


Odors  and  exhalations,  where  I  stray, 
Sweeten  and  beautify  the  lapsing  years  ; 
And  through  whatever  is,  what  is  to  be  ap 
pears. 


Some  deem  this  land  of  dreams  the  Land 

of  Life,— 
And,  moved  by  high  ambitions,  build 

them  here 
Mansions  of  pride,  that  fill  erewhile  with 

strife, 


And  palaces  of  hope,  that  disappear 
Ere  well  completed  ;  still,  through  many 

a  year, 
Vain  repetitions  of  this  toil  and  sweat 

Go  on,  until  the  heart  is  lone  and  sere, 
And  weary,  and  oppressed ;  and  even  yet 
Men  plod  and  plant,  and  reap  earth's  fever 
and  its  fret. 


And  others  deem  this  land  the  land   of 

woe, — 
And  fill  it  with  vague  shapes,  chimeras 

dire, 
Sights,  sounds,  portents,  that  hither  come 

and  go, 
Melting  'midst  ice,  and   freezing  amid 

fire — 
Each  feeling  its  own  hate,  and  cither's 

ire — 
Seething  and  bubbling  like  a  storm-tossed 

sea — 

With  wailings  ever  born,  that  ne'er  ex 
pire — 
Primeval  ills,  from  which  in  vain  they 

flee- 
All  horrors  man  can  taste,  or  touch,  or 
hear,  or  see. 

But,  ne'ertheless,  this  is  the  land  of  dreams : 
Unto  the  Land  of  Life,  through  this  we 

go, 
From  out  the  land  of  darkness,  wherefrom 

streams 
No  ray,  that  thence  we  might  its  secret 

know : 
Unto  the  Land  of  Life,  through  this  we 

go- 
Through   this,  the  land   of  dreams ;    and 

dimly  here 
Perceive,  while  wandering  trustful  to 

and  fro, 

Things  that  in  full-robed  glory  there  ap 
pear, 

Around  the  Eternal  One,  throughout  the 
Eternal  Year. 


144 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


THE  SPOTTED  FAWN.* 

ON  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge 

The  Red  Chief's  wigwam  stood, 
When  first  the  white  man's  rifle  rang 

Loud  through  the  echoing  wood. 
The  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife 

Together  lay  at  rest ; 
For  peace  was  in  the  forest  shades, 

And  in  the  red  man's  breast. 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 
The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 

"With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  gone. 

By  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge 
The  Spotted  Fawn  had  birth, 

And  grew,  as  fair  an  Indian  girl 
As  ever  blest  the  earth. 


*  THE  SPOTTED  FAWN  was  written  in  1845,  for  Duffield, 
a  popular  vocalist,  and  was  first  sung  by  him  at  a  concert 
in  Washington  Hall,  on  Third  street,  Cincinnati.  It  be 
came  immediately  a  great  favorite,  and  was  published, 
with  the  music,  by  Peters  &  Field.  Every  body  sang,  re 
peated,  or  talked  about  the  ''  Spotted  Fawn,"  and  every 
body  was  shocked,  as  well  as  provoked  to  admiration  by 
its  superior  aptness  of  rhythm  and  alliteration,  when  the 
following  parody  appeared  in  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer : 


"THE  SPOTTED  FROG. 

"  ON  muddy  Mill-Creek's  marshy  marge, 

When  summer's  heat  was  felt, 
Full  many  a  burly  bullfrog  large 

And  tender  tadpole  dwelt ; 
And  there,  at  noonday,  might  be  seen, 

Upon  a  rotted  log, 

The  bullfrogs  brown,  and  tadpoles  green, 
And  there  the  Spotted  Frog  ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog  ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog  ! 
The  light  and  life  of  Mill-Creek's  mud 
Was  the  lovely  Spotted  Frog  ! 

"  By  stagnant  Mill-Creek's  muddy  marge, 

The  Spotted  Frog  had  birth  : 
And  grew  as  fair  and  fat  a  frog 

As  ever  hopped  on  earth. 
She  was  the  Frog-Chiefs  only  child, 

And  sought  by  many  a  frog  ; 
But  yet  on  one  alone  she  smiled, 
From  that  old  rotted  log. 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog! 
The  light  and  life  of  Mill-Creek's  mud 
Was  the  lovely  Spotted  Frog ! 


She  was  the  Red  Chief's  only  child, 

And  sought  by  many  a  brave ; 
But  to  the  gallant  young  White  Cloud, 
Her  plighted  troth  she  gave. 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn  ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 
The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 
With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  gone. 

From  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge 

Her  bridal  song  arose — 
None  dreaming,  in  that  festal  night, 

Of  near  encircling  foes  ; 
But  through  the  forest,  stealthily, 

The  white  men  came  in  wrath ; 
And  fiery  deaths  before  them  sped, 

And  blood  was  in  their  path. 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 


"  From  muddy  Mill-Creek's  stagnant  marge 

Her  bridal  song  arose  ; 
None  dreaming,  as  they  hopped  about, 

Of  near  encircling  foes  ; 
But  cruel  boys,  in  search  of  sport, 

To  Mill-Creek  came  that  day, 
And  at  the  frogs,  with  sticks  and  stones, 
Began  to  blaze  away  ! 

Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog  ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog  ! 
The  light  and  life  of  Mill-Creeks's  mud 
Was  the  lovely  Spotted  Frog ! 

"  On  muddy  Mill-Creek's  marshy  marge, 

Next  morn,  no  frogs  were  seen  ; 
But  a  mortal  pile  of  sticks  and  stones 

Told  where  the  fray  had  been  ! 
And  time  rolled  on,  and  other  frogs 

Assembled  round  that  log  ; 
But  never  Mill-Creek's  marshes  saw 
Again  that  Spotted  Frog  ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Frog! 
The  light  and  life  of  Mill-Creek's  mud 

Was  the  lovely  Spotted  Frog  !  " 

The  point  of  the  parody  is  in  the  fact  that  ;<  Mill-Creek  " 
(a  small  stream  which  empties  into  the  Ohio  River  just 
below  Cincinnati)  is  the  common  name  for  Mahketewa — 
a  stream  highly  distinguished  in  the  memory  of  all  Cin 
cinnati  boys  for  "spotted  frogs."  The  parody  was  pub 
lished  in  all  the  papers,  and  became  the  rage.  The 
authorship  of  it  is  yet  unknown.  It  was  ascribed  to  Re 
becca  S.  Nichols,  Lewis  J.  Cist,  John  P.  Jenks,  Cornelius 
A.  Logan,  W.  II.  Lytle,  and  others.  Discussion  in  the 
newspapers  about  the  authorship  of  the  '  Spotted  Frog  " 
has  perpetuated  the  interest  for  the  "  Spotted  Fawn  "  which 
Mr.  Duffield's  superior  merit  as  a  vocalist  first  secured 
for  it. 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


145 


The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 
With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  gone. 

On  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge, 

Next  morn,  no  strife  was  seen  ; 
But  a  \vail  went  up,  where  the  young 

Fawn's  blood 

And  White  Cloud's  dyed  the  green ; 
And  burial,  in  their  own  rude  way, 

The  Indians  gave  them  there, 
While  a  low  and  sweet-ton'd  requiem 
The  brook  sang  and  the  air. 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 
Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn ! 
The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 
With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  "-one. 


THE  ARTISAN. 

THE  day  is  past; — the  quiet  night 

Toward  its  midhour  weareth  on; 
His  workshop  has  been  closed  for  hours — 

A  good  day's  labor  done. 
The  toil  is  hard  that  brings  him  bread ; 

And  sometimes  he  hath  scant  supply ; 
When  droops  awhile  his  manly  head, 

And  glistens  his  full  eye. 

Yet  from  the  trial  shrinks  he  not ; 

For  he  has  youth,  and  strength,  and 

will; 
And  though  his  toil  is  ill  repaid, 

Bends  daily  to  it  still. 
He  sometimes  murmurs, — but  his  pride 

Checks  each  expression  at  its  birth, — 
That  blessings  to  his  class  denied 

Surround  the  drones  of  earth. 

He  passes,  morn  and  noon  and  night, 

The  homes  of  luxury  and  wealth ; 
And  glances  at  their  gilded  ease, 

His  eye  will  take  by  stealth. 
And  shadows  gather  on  his  face, 

At  times — but  instantly  depart — 
He  feels  such  weakness  a  disgrace 

Both  to  his  head  and  heart. 


His  calling  sometimes  takes  him  where 

Wealth,    worth,    grace,    beauty,    all 

unite ; 
And  lovely  tones  arrest  his  ear, 

And  lovely  looks  his  sight ; 
And  much  lie  thinks — and  half  he  sighs — 

Yet  ere  his  welcome  work  is  done, 
He  longs  for  home,  and  Mary's  eyes, 

And  for  his  prattling  son. 

His  labor  hath  been  light  to-day ; 

And  wife  and  child  before  him  sleep ; 
And  he  has  pass'd  the  half-spent  night 

In  study  close  and  deep. 
The  lamp  burns  dim — the  fire  is  low — 

The  book  is  closed  wherein  he  read; 
But  wildly  swells  the  streams  of  thought 

Its  fountain-pages  fed. 

With  eyes  fixed  calmly  on  the  floor, 

But  varying  and  expressive  face, 
He  cons  the  lesson  o'er  and  o'er — 

The  history  of  his  race. 
And  much  he  finds  of  word  and  deed, 

Whose  virtue  is  example  now ; 
But  more  that  makes  his  bosom  bleed, 

And  darkens  o'er  his  brow. 

The   thirst  for   wealth — the   strife   for 
power — 

The  ceaseless  struggle  for  renown — 
The  daring  that  hath  seized  a  realm, 

Or  caught  a  wavering  crown — 
The  manhood  that  hath  tamely  bent 

And  fall'n  beneath  tyrannic  sway — 
The  bahVd  resistance,  that  hath  lent 

Its  darkness  to  the  day. 

But  chiefly  this  it  is  that  fills 

The  swelling  volume  of  his  mind : 
The  countless  wrongs  and  cruelties 

That  have  oppress'd  his  kind. 
And  viewing  them,  upon  his  brain 

His  own  hard  struggles  darkly  throng ; 
And  as  he  feels  their  weight  again, 

It  presses  like  a  wrong : 


10 


146 


WILLIAM    D .    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


Wrong  to  himself,  and  wrong  to  all 

Who  bear  the  burthens  he  hath  borne  : 
"A  yoke !"  up  starting  he  exclaims, 

"And  oh,  how  meekly  worn  !" 
But  as  he  reads  Lite's  riddle  still, 

He  feels,  with  sudden  change  of  mood, 
The  stern,  the  indomitable  will, 

That  never  was  subdued. 

The  will,  not  to  destroy,  but  build ! 

Not  the  blind  Might  of  old  renown, 
Which  took  the  pillars  in  its  grasp, 

And  shook  the  temple  down — 
But  that  whose  patient  energy 

Works  ever  upward,  without  rest, 
Until  the  pierced  and  parted  sea 

Rolls  from  its  coral  breast. 

In  the  dim  fire-light  for  awhile, 

His  tall  form  moveth  to  and  fro  ; 
Then  by  the  couch  of  those  he  loves, 

He  stops,  and  bendeth  low. 
Oh,  holy  love  !  oh,  blessed  kiss  ! 

Ye  ask  not  splendor — bide  notpow'r — 
But  in  a  humble  home  like  this, 

Ye  have  your  triumph  hour ! 

He  sleeps — but  even  on  his  dreams 

Obtrudes  the  purpose  of  his  soul ; 
He  wanders  where  the  living  streams 

Of  knowledge  brightly  roll ; 
And  where  men  win  their  own  good  ways, 

Not  yield  to  doubt  or  dark  despair, 
In  dreams  his  bounding  spirit  strays — 

In  dreams  he  triumphs  there. 

With  stronger  arm,  with  mightier  heart, 

Than  he  hath  felt  or  known  before, 
When  comes  the  morrow's  hour  of  toil, 

He'll  leave  his  humble  door. 
No  wavering  hence  he'll  know — no  rest 

Until  the  new-seen  goal  be  won ; 
But  firm,  and  calm,  and  self-possess'd, 

Bear  resolutely  on. 

And  this  it  is  that,  year  by  year, 

Through  which  nor   faith  nor  hope 
grows  less, 


Pursued,  shall  crown  his  high  career 

With  honor  and  success. 
This — this  it  is  that  marks  the  man  ! 

Dare  thou,  then,  'neath  whose  studious 

eye 
This  lesson  lies,  rouse  up  at  once, 

And  on  thyself  rely  ! 

Give  to  thy  free  soul  freest  thought ; 

And  whatsoe'er  it  prompts  thee  do, 
That  manfully,  year  in,  year  out, 

With  all  thy  might  pursue. 
What  though  thy  name  may  not  be  heard 

Afar,  or  shouted  through  the  town, 
Thou'lt  win  a  higher  meed  of  praise, 

A  worthier  renown. 

Press  on,  then  ! — earth  has  need  of  thee ! 

The  metal  at  the  forge  is  red ; 
The  ax  is  rusting  by  the  tree ; 

The  grain  hangs  heavy  in  the  head. 
Heed  not  who  works  not — labor  thou! 

Lay    bravely    hold,   nor    pause,   nor 

shrink ! 
Life's  Rubicon  is  here — and  stand 

Not  dubious  on  the  brink ! 


CONSERVATISM. 

THE  Owl,  he  fareth  well 

In  the  shadows  of  the  night ; 

And  it  puzzles  him  to  tell 

Why  the  Eagle  loves  the  light. 

Away  he  floats — away, 

From  the  forest  dim  and  old, 

Where  he  pass'd  the  gairish  day: — 
The  Night  doth  make  him  bold ! 

The  wave  of  his  downy  wing, 
As  he  courses  around  about, 

Disturbs  no  sleeping  thing 
That  he  findeth  in  his  route. 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


147 


The  moon  looks  o'er  the  hill, 

And  the  vale  grows  softly  light ; 

And  the  cock,  with  greeting  shrill, 
Wakes  the  echoes  of  the  night. 

But  the  moon — he  knoweth  well 

Its  old  familiar  face; 
And  the  cock — it  doth  but  tell, 

Poor  fool !  its  resting-place. 

And  as  still  as  the  spirit  of  Death 
On  the  air  his  pinions  play; 

There's  not  the  noise  of  a  breath, 
As  he  grapples  with  his  prey. 

Oh,  the  shadowy  night  for  him ! 

It  bringeth  him  fare  and  glee ; 
And  what  cares  he  how  dim 

For  the  eagle  it  may  be  ? 

It  clothes  him  from  the  cold, 

It  keeps  his  larders  full, 
And  he  loves  the  darkness  old, 

To  the  eagle  all  so  dull. 

But  the  dawn  is  in  the  east — 
And  the  shadows  disappear  ; 

And  at  once  his  timid  breast 
Feels  the  presence  of  a  fear. 

He  resists  ; — but  all  in  vain ! 

The  clear  Light  is  not  for  him ; 
So  he  hastens  back  again 

To  the  forest  old  and  dim. 

Through  his  head  strange  fancies  run ; 

For  he  cannot  comprehend 
Why  the  moon,  and  then  the  sun, 

Up  the  heavens  should  ascend, — 

When  the  old  and  quiet  Night, 
With  its  shadows  dark  and  deep, 

And  the  half-revealing  light 
Of  its  stars,  he'd  ever  keep. 

And  he  hooteth  loud  and  long: — 
But  the  eagle  greets  the  Day, 

And  on  pinions  bold  and  strong, 
Like  a  roused  thought,  sweeps  away ! 


RADICALOS. 

IN  the  far  and  fading  ages 

Of  the  younger  days  of  earth, 
When  man's  aspirations  quicken'd, 

And  his  passions  had  their  birth — 
When  first  paled  his  glorious  beauty, 

And  his  heart  first  knew  unrest, 
As  he  yielded  to  the  tempter 

That  inflamed  and  filPd  his  breast — 
When  the  Voice  that  was  in  Eden 

Echoed  through  his  startled  soul, 
And  he  heard  rebuking  anthems 

Through  the  heavenly  arches  roll — • 
When  he  fell  from  the  high  promise 

Of  his  being's  blessed  morn, 
To  a  night  of  doubt  and  struggle — 

Radicalos  then  was  born. 

Through  the  ages  long  and  dreary 

That  since  then  have  dawn'd  on  earth, 
Man  has  had  but  feeble  glimpses 

Of  the  glory  of  his  birth: 
Catching  these,  his  soul,  aspiring 

To  its  morning  light  again, 
Hard  has  upward  toil'd,  and  often 

Fill'd  with  hope,  but  still  in  vain. 
Many  a  blessed  song  comes  stealing 

Downward  from  the  Eden  aisles, 
Whence  the  light  of  heavenliest  beauty 

Still  upon  the  banish'd  smiles  ; 
But  the  harmonies  are  broken 

Of  each  sounding  choral  hymn, 
And  the  gloom  that  vails  his  spirit 

Makes  e'en  heavenly  splendor  dim. 

Faint  reveal  ings,  thwarted  hopings, 

Wearying  struggles,  day  by  day:  — 
So  the  long  and  dreary  ages 

Of  his  life  have  worn  away. 
War,  and  rapine,  and  oppression, 

Early  in  his  course  he  found — 
Brother  against  brother  striving — 

By  the  few  the  many  bound. 
And  in  patience,  and  in  meekness, 

To  the  galling  chain  resign'd, 


148 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


Thus  the  fettered  limbs  have  rested — 
Thus  hath  slept  the  darkened  mind. 

But  it  wakens  now  ! — it  flashes 
Like  the  lightning  ere  the  rain ; 

And  those    limbs  grow  strong! — when 
ready, 

They  can  rend  the  mightiest  chain. 

Through  the  slow  and  stately  marches 

Of  the  centuries  sublime, 
Radicalos  hath  been  strengthening 

For  the  noblest  work  of  Time, 
And  he  comes  upon  the  Present 

Like  a  god  in  look  and  mien, 
With  composure  high  surveying 

All  the  tumult  of  the  scene : 
Where  obey  the  fettered  millions  ; 

Where  command  the  fettering  few ; 
Where  the  chain  of  wrong  is  forging, 

With  its  red  links  hid  from  view; 
And  he  standeth  by  the  peasant, 

And  he  standeth  by  the  lord, 
And  he  shouts  "  Your  rights  are  equal ! " 

Till  earth  startles  at  the  word. 

He  hath  seen  the  record  written, 

From  the  primal  morn  of  man, 
In  the  blood  of  battling  nations 

O'er  ensanguined  plains  that  ran ; 
In  the  tears  of  the  deluded, 

In  the  sweat  of  the  oppress'd, 
Fi-om  Ind's  farthest  peopled  borders 

To  the  new  worlds  of  the  West. 
And  he  cometh  with  deliverance  ! 

And  his  might  shall  soon  be  known, 
Where  the  wrong'd  rise  up  for  justice, 

And  the  wrongers  lie  o'erthrown. 

Wo !  the  pride  that  then  shall  scorn  him  : 

He  will  bring  it  fitly  low ! 
Wo  !  the  arm  that  shall  oppose  him : 

He  will  cleave  it  at  a  blow ! 
Wo  !  the  hosts  that  shall  beset  him : 

He  will  scatter  them  abroad  ! 
He  will  strike  them  down  forever ! 

Radicdlos  is  of  God. 


THE  BETTER  DAY. 

WORKERS  high,  and  workers  low, 

Weary  workers  every  where, 
For  the  New  Age  rounding  to 

Like  a  planet,  now  prepare ! 

#  *  #  #  # 

Delver  in  the  deep  dark  mine, 
Where  no  rays  of  sunlight  shine ; 
Toiler  in  unwholesome  rooms, 
Foul  and  damp  with  lingering  glooms: 
Worker  by  the  hot  highway, 
In  the  blinding  blaze  of  day — 
Come  it  cold,  or  come  it  hot, 
Be  of  spirit :  falter  not ; 
Toil  is  duty,  growth,  and  gain  ; 
Never  wasted — never  vain  ! 
Patient,  pent-up  man-machine, 
At  the  loom  and  shuttle  seen, 
Wreaving  in  with  nicest  art 
Throbbings  of  thy  own  poor  heart, 
Till  the  subtile  textures  seem 
With  thy  very  life  to  gleam — 
Hard  the  toil,  but  work  away : 
Yet  shall  dawn  the  Better  Day ! 

Stitcher,  by  the  cradle's  side, 
Where  thy  fondest  hopes  abide, 
Working  with  a  heart  of  might 
All  the  day  and  half  the  night, 
Often  till  the  east  grows  red 
With  the  dawning,  for  thy  bread  ; 
Though  thou  art  of  feeble  limb, 
And  thine  eyes  are  pained  and  dim, 
Sending  off,  with  every  piece 
Which  thy  weary  hands  release, 
Portions  of  thy  life  wrought  in 
With  the  garment,  white  and  thin — 
Work  and  wait ;  the  end  is  sure  ; 
Time  his  offspring  will  mature : 
Work  with  will,  and  work  away, 
Doubting  not  the  Better  Day  ! 

Workers  high,  and  workers  low, 
Weary  workers  every  where, 

For  the  New  Age  rounding  to 
Like  a  planet,  now  prepare  ! 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


149 


See !  the  night  is  nearly  past, 
And  the  morning  dawns  at  last. 
Far  behind,  the  shadows  lie 
Dark  upon  the  western  sky  ; 
While  before,  the  east  is  gray 
Where  the  harbinger  of  day, 
Rounding  up  the  azure  cope, 
Flames,  the  morning-star  of  Hope ! 
Be  not  hasty ;  be  not  rash  ; 
Though  its  beams  within  you  flash 
Calm  endurance  is  sublime  : 
Falter  not,  but  bide  your  time. 
— Weary  workers,  work  away ; 
God  will  lead  the  Better  Day  ! 


OUR  CHILDREN. 

THEY  are  stricken,  darkly  stricken  ; 

Faint  and  fainter  grows  each  breath  ; 
And  the  shadows  round  them  thicken, 

Of  the  darkness  that  is  Death. 
We  are  with  them — bending  o'er  them — 

And  the  Soul  in  sorrow  saith, 
"  Would  that  I  had  passed  before  them, 

To  the  darkness  that  is  Death ! "  '  * 

They  are  sleeping,  coldly  sleeping, 

In  the  graveyard  still  and  lone, 
Where  the  winds,  above  them  sweeping, 

Make  a  melancholy  moan. 
Thickly  round  us — darkly  o'er  us — 

Is  the  pall  of  sorrow  thrown ; 
And  our  heart-beats  make  the  chorus 

Of  that  melancholy  moan. 

They  are  waking,  brightly  waking, 

From  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb, 
And,  enrobed  in  light,  forsaking 

Its  impenetrable  gloom. 
They  are  rising — they  have  risen — 

And  their  spirit-forms  illume, 
In  the  darkness  of  Death's  prison, 

The  impenetrable  gloom. 


They  are  passing,  upward  passing, 

Dearest  beings  of  our  love, 
And  their  spirit-forms  are  glassing 

In  the  beautiful  Above : 
There  we  see  them — there  we  hear  them — 

Through  our  dreams  they  ever  move ; 
And  we  long  to  be  a-near  them, 

In  the  beautiful  Above. 

They  are  going,  gently  going, 

In  their  angel-robes  to  stand, 
Where  the  river  of  Life  is  flowing 

In  the  far-off  Silent  Land. 
We  shall  mourn  them — we  shall  miss  them, 

From  our  broken  little  band  ; 
But  our  souls  shall  still  caress  them, 

In  the  far-off  Silent  Land. 

They  are  singing,  sweetly  singing, 

Far  beyond  the  vail  of  Night, 
Where  the  angel-harps  are  ringing, 

And  the  Day  is  ever  bright. 
We  can  love  them — we  can  greet  them — 

From  this  land  of  dimmer  light, 
Till  God  takes  us  hence  to  meet  them 

Where  the  Day  is  ever  bright. 


A  HYMN  OF  THE  DAY  THAT  IS  DAWNING. 

IF  the  promise  of  the  present 
Be  not  a  hollow  cheat, 
If  true-hearted  men  and  women 
Prove  faithful  and  discreet, 
If  none  falter  who  are  hoping 
And  contending  for  the  Right, 
Then  a  time  is  surely  coming, 
As  a  day-beam  from  the  night — 

When  the  landless  shall  have  foothold 

In  fee  upon  the  soil, 
And  for  his  wife  and  little  ones 

Bend  to  his  willing  toil : 


150 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


When  the  wanderer,  no  longer 

In  sorrow  forced  to  roam, 
Shall  see  around  him  spring  and  bloom 

The  blessed  things  of  home : 


When  the  poor  and  widowed  mother 
S.iul1  f    recompense  obtain, 

For  her     .ys  and  nights  of  toiling, 
From  the  sordid  man  of  gain : 


When  the  brawny  limbs  of  labor, 
And  the  hard  and  horny  hand, 

For  their  strivings,  for  their  doings, 
Meet  honor  shall  command : 


ggle 


When  suffering  hearts,  that  stru 

In  silence,  and  endure, 
Shall  receive,  unsought,  the  earnest 

Ministrations  of  the  pure  : 

When  the  master  with  his  bondsmen 
For  a  price  shall  divide  the  soil, 

And  the  slave,  at  last  enfranchised, 
Shall  go  singing  to  his  toil : 

When  the  bloody  trade  of  the  soldier 

Shall  lose  its  olden  charm, 
And  the  sickle  hand  be  honored  more 

Than  the  sword  and   the  red   right 
arm: 

When  tolerance  and  truthfulness 

Shall  not  be  under  ban, 
And  the  fiercest  foe  and  deadliest 

Man  knows,  shall  not  be  man. 

Be  firm,  and  be  united, 
Ye  who  war  against  the  wrong ! 
Though  neglected,  though  deserted, 
In  your  purpose  still  be  strong  ! 
To  the  faith  and  hope  that  move  you 
In  the  things  ye  dare  and  do, 
Though  the  world  rise  up  against  you, 
Be  resolute — be  true  ! 


DANDELIONS. 

MY  heart  leaps  like  a  child's,  when  first 
I  see  them  on  their  lowly  stem, 

As  from  still  wint'ry  fields  they  burst, 
Bright  as  the  blue  skies  over  them, 

Sprinkling  with  gold  the  meadowy  green, 

Where  Spring's  approach  is  earliest  seen. 

They  come  in  changeful  April  days, 
These  children  of  the  cloud  and  sun, 

When  light  with  shadow  softly  plays, 
As  both  along  the  ridges  run, 

Wooing  the  bee  from  out  his  cell, 

With  tales  of  flowery  slopes  they  tell. 

Bright  horologe  of  seasons — they 
Proclaim  the  floral  calends  here, 

Revealing  wrhen  in  woods  away 

Spring  flowers,  and  singing  birds  appear, 

Through  open  aisle  and  mazy  bout 

To  lure  the  feet  of  childhood  out. 

I  love  them  that  so  soon  they  spring 
Where  slopes  the  meadow  to  the  brook ; 

I  love  them  that  to  earth  they  bring 
So  cheerful  and  so  warm  a  look ; 

And  that  again  they  give  to  me 

The  playmates  of  my  infancy. 

0 !  days  of  love,  and  trust,  and  truth ; 

(The  morning  sky  is  strangely  bright !) 
O  !  loved  companions  of  my  youth  : 

(How  darkly  closes  in  the  night !) 
Again  the  fields  spread  free  and  far ; 
Beyond  them,  still  the  woodlands  are. 

I'm  with  you  now,  glad-hearted  ones ! 

Where'er  beneath  the  April  sky 
The  flashing  rill  in  music  runs, 

Or  flowery  lawns  in  sunlight  lie — 
Where  harvest  apples  ripe  we  see, 
And  where  the  summer  berries  be. 

I'm  with  you  where  the  cardinal  bird 
Pipes  in  the  budding  groves  of  spring, 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    D .    GALLAGHER. 


151 


And  where  the  thrasher's  song  is  heard 

Till  all  the  summer  forests  ring ; 
Where  nuts  in  autumn  fall,  and  where 
The  wild  grape  hangs,  I'm  with  you  there. 

O !  days  of  love,  and  trust,  and  truth  ; 

(The  flowers  were  bright  upon  the  lawn !) 
O  !  loved  companions  of  my  youth : 

(How  many,  like  the  flowers,  are  gone !) 
Nor  flower  nor  child  goes  down  in  vain : 
Ye  both  shall  rise  and  bloom  again. 


NOCTES  D1VINORUM. 

THE  sky  is  black :  the  earth  is  cold : 

The  laboring  moon  gives  little  light : 
Wild  gusts  in  ghostly  tones  unfold 

The  secrets  of  the  deep,  dread  night. 
And  glimmering  round  and  round  me,  glide 

Weird  fancies  of  the  midnight  born, 
Close-linked  with  shadowy  sprites  that  ride 

The  dusky  hours  of  eve  and  morn. 

Gaunt  images,  that  haunt  the  sight, 

Of  sin  and  crime,  and  want  and  woe, 
Have  been  my  guests  for  hours  to-night, 

And  still  are  passing  to  and  fro. 
Ah,wella\vay  !  and  so  they  may  ! 

They  do  not  tell  the  lie  of  life ; 
Night  oft  is  truer  than  the  day ; 

Peace  often  falser  far  than  strife. 

A  year  goes  out :  a  year  comes  in : 

How  swiftly  and  how  still  they  flee ! 
What  mission  had  the  year  that's  been  ? 

What  mission  hath  the  year  to  be  ? 
Oh,  brother  man !  look  wisely  back, 

Along  the  far  and  fading  days, 
And  closely  scan  the  crowded  track 

On  which  the  light  of  memory  plays. 

The  friend  with  whom  you  took  your  wine 
A  year  ago — where  is  he  now  ? 


The  child  you  almost  thought  divine, 
Such  beauty  robed  its  shining  brow — 

The  wife  upon  whose  pillowing  breast 
Misleading  doubts  and  carking  care 

Were  ever  gently  lulled  to  rest — 

Where  are  they  now,  my  brother,  where? 

In  vain  you  start,  and  look  a       id! 

In  vain  the  involuntary  caL . 
The  graveyard  has  an  added  mound 

For  wife,  or  child,  or  friend — or  all. 
And  downward  to  the  dust  with  them, 

How  many  garnered  hopes  have  gone  ! 
Yet  they  were  those  ye  thought  to  stem 

The  tide  of  time  with,  pressing  on. 

Ah !  Hope  is  such  a  flattering  cheat, 

We  scarce  can  choose  but  him  believe ! 
We  see  and  feel  his  bold  deceit, 

Yet  trust  him  still,  to  still  deceive. 
Despair  is  truer  far  than  he ! 

Though  dark  and  pitiless  its  form, 
It  never  bids  us  look,  and  see 

The  sunshine,  when  it  brings  the  storm. 


Farewell !  old  year :  yet  by  your  bier 

I  linger,  if  I  will  or  no : 
For  sorrow  tends  to  link  as  friends 

Those  who  had  hardly  else  been  so. 
How  often  back,  along  the  track 

Which  you  and  I  have  wearily  traced, 
My  bleeding  heart  will  sadly  start 

To  view  again  that  desert  waste ! 

Aha !  old  year,  you've  brought  the  tear, 

In  spite  of  all  I  thought  or  said : 
I  did  not  know  one  still  could  flow, 

So  many  you  have  made  me  shed. 
You're  stiff  and  stark  :  you're  gone  ! "  .  .  . 
'Tis  dark, 

Here  where  I  sit  and  sigh  alone. 
But  wipe  the  eye,  and  check  the  sigh : 

What's  he,  who  hath  not  sorrow  known? 


152 


WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 


[1830-40. 


Despair  may  truer  be  than  Hope ; 

But  Hope  is  mightier  far  than  he  ! 
As  rounding  up  yon  starless  cope, 

Even  now  to-morrow's  sun  I  see, 
So  Hope  brings  day  before  'tis  day, 

And  antedates  a  word,  or  deed, 
Or  thought,  that  shall  be  felt  for  aye, 

And  help  us  in  our  sorest  need. 

Ah,  Hope  is  truer  than  Despair! — 

What  says  the  iron  tongue  of  time, 
From  yon  old  turret  high  in  air, 

Pealing  the  centuries'  march  sublime  ? 
"  God  gives  to  man  another  year, 

"With  Hope  his  friend  ! "    Bereaved  one, 
Uncloud  the  brow,  dry  up  the  tear — 

Joy  cometh  with  the  morrow's  sun ! 


HARVEST  HYMN. 

GREAT   God!  —  our  heart-felt  thanks  to 
Thee! 

We  feel  thy  presence  every  where ; 
And  pray  that  we  may  ever  be 

Thus  objects  of  thy  guardian  care. 

We  sowed  ! — by  Thee  our  work  was  seen, 
And  blessed ;  and  instantly  went  forth 

Thy  mandate  ;  and  in  living  green 

Soon  smiled  the  fair  and  fruitful  earth. 

We  toiled ! — and  Thou  didst  note  our  toil ; 

And  gav'st  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Till  ripened  on  the  teeming  soil 

The  fragrant  grass  and  golden  grain. 

And  now,  we  reap  ! — and  oh,  our  God  ! 

From  this,  the  earth's  unbounded  floor, 
We  send  our  Song  of  Thanks  abroad, 

And  pray  Thee,  bless  our  hoarded  store ! 


"WHEN  LAST  THE  MAPLE  BUD  WAS 
SWELLING." 

WHEN  last  the  maple  bud  was  swelling, 

When  last  the  crocus  bloomed  below, 
Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  telling, 

Thy  soul  with  mine  kept  ebb  and  flow ; 
Again  the  maple  bud  is  swelling — 

Again  the  crocus  blooms  below — 
In  heaven  thy  heart  its  love  is  telling, 

But  still  our  souls  keep  ebb  and  flow. 

When  last  the  April  bloom  was  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
In  forest-aisles  thy  voice  was  ringing, 

Where  thou  didst  with  the  red-bird  sing; 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
But  now  in  heaven  thy  voice  is  ringing, 

Where  thou  dost  with  the  angels  sing. 


THE  WEST.* 

BROAD  plains — blue  waters — hills  and  val 
leys, 

That  ring  with  anthems  of  the  free  ! 
Brown-pillared  groves,  with  green-arched 

alleys, 
That  Freedom's  holiest  temples  be  ! 

These  forest-aisles  are  full  of  story: — 
Here  many  a  one  of  old  renown 

First  sought  the  meteor-light  of  glory, 
And 'mid  its  transient  flash  went  down. 

Historic  names  forever  greet  us, 

Where'er  our  wandering  way  we  thread ; 

Familiar  forms  and  faces  meet  us — 
As  living  walk  with  us  the  dead. 

Man's  fame,  so  often  evanescent, 

Links  here  with  thoughts  and  things  that 
last; 

And  all  the  bright  and  teeming  Present 
Thrills  with  the  great  and  glorious  Past. 


*  Written  for  this  volume. 


is:;o  -40.] 


WILLIAM  D.   GALLAGHER. 


MY  FIFTIETH  YEAR. 

I  DO  complete  this  day  my  fiftieth  year: 
But  were  it  not  that  tell-tale  gray  hath 

spread 

A  mantle  not  of  youth  upon  my  head ; 
And  that,  forsooth !  about  my  eyes  appear 
A  few  small  wrinkles ;  and  that,  likewise, 

here 

And  there  a  joint  is  not  as  once  it  was, 
Springy  and  nimble  as  a  deer's,  but  does 
Impede  somewhat  my  motions  when  I  try 
The  heartier  games  of  early  manhood,  I 
Should  count  myself  upon  life's  thresh 
old  yet : 

For  in  my  spirit  live  its  olden  fires, 
And  at  my  heart  still  quicken  the  desires 
That  moved  me  ere  the  fever  and  the 

fret 

Of  life  had  somewhat  worn  my  nature  down. 
Sleeping  or  waking,  oft  I  still    dream 

dreams, 
And  still  see  visions ;    and  the  shadowy 

brown 
Of  evening,  as  the  purpling  morning, 

teems 

With  spirit-forms  and  spirit-tones,  that  lift 
My  soul  from  out  the  dismal  days,  that 

drift 

Me  onward,  onward,  like  a  very  leaf. 
I  do,  or  think  and  feel  I  do,  behold 
The  chart  of  Truth  before  my  eyes  un- 

roll'd : 
And  it  has  been  and  now  is  my  belief, 

That  only  in  their  sins  do  men  grow  old. 
Virtues    are  like    perpetual  springs,  that 

keep 

Greenness  and  bloom  about  them  ever 
more  : 

But  vices,  like  destroying  gales  that  sweep 
O'er  ocean,  and  lay  waste  from  shore  to 

shore. 
Faith  grows  not  feeble:  Hope  is  ever  young: 

And  Charity  is  gifted  like  a  god 
With  comeliness  and  ardor.     Valor  sprung 


An   Athlete  from  his  birth,  and  went 

abroad 

For  high  emprises,  and  is  Athlete  still : 
Endurance  is  another  name  for  will, 
Which  time  o'ercomes  not:  patience,  meek 
ness,  love, 

That  came  from  and  shall  yet  return  above, 
Weary    not    in    the    ceaseless  march  of 

years. 
Nothing  man  knows  or  is,  but  Sin,  grows 

old; 

And  she  a  wrinkled,  loathsome  hag  ap 
pears, 
Ere  half  a  life  hath  half  its  seasons  told. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  Youth!    that   in  the 

soul 

Liveth  forever,  where  sin  liveth  not. 
How  fresh  Creation's  chart  doth  still  un 
roll 

Before  our  eyes,  although  the  little  spot 
That  knows  us  now,  shall  know  us  soon  no 

more 

Forever !     We  look  backward,  and  before, 

And  inward,  and  we  feel  there  is  a  life 

Impelling  us,  that  need  not  with  this  frame 

Or  flesh  grow  feeble,  but  for  aye  the  same 

May    live    on,  e'en  amid   this  worldly 

strife, 
Clothed  with  the  beauty  and  the  freshness 

still 

It  brought  with  it  at  first ;  and  that  it  will 
Glide  almost  imperceptibly  away, 
Taking  no  taint  of  this  dissolving  clay ; 
And,  joining  with  the  incorruptible 
And  spiritual  body  that  awaits 
Its  coming  at  the  starr'd  and  golden  gates 
Of  Heaven,  move  on  with  the  celestial  train 
Whose  shining  vestments,  as  along  they 

stray, 

Flash  with  the  splendors  of  eternal  day ; 

And  mingle  with  its  Primal  Source  again, 

Where  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  and  Love 

and  Truth, 

Dwell  with  the  Godhead  in  immortal 
youth. 


JAMES  H.  PERKINS. 


JAMES  HANDASAYD  PERKINS,  the  youngest  child  of  Samuel  G.  Perkins  and 
Barbara  Higginson,  was  born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  July  thirty-one,  1810.  His  early 
life  was  spent  in  mercantile  pursuits,  but  stocks  and  trade  were  not  congenial  to  his 
tastes,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  at  liberty  to  act  for  himself,  he  abandoned  them.  He 
felt  that  devotion  to  ledgers  and  exile  from  study,  would  convert  him  into  a  mere  copying 
machine.  He  longed  for  more  earnest  and  congenial  intercourse  than  could  be  sustained 
with  his  companions  amidst  the  excitement  of  business.  Nor  did  he  feel  conscious  that 
he  possessed  the  love  of  money-making  which  is  the  prerequisite  of  worldly  success. 
His  eyes  gradually  opened  to  the  true  character  of  competitive  commerce.  This 
filled  him  first  with  dismay,  then  with  disgust.  For  a  time  he  became  a  complete 
cynic.  The  spectacle  of  hollow  conventional  customs,  the  pride  of  the  opulent  and 
the  cringing  concessions  of  the  needy,  with  the  fawning  flattery  that  vitiates  the 
courtesies  of  fashionable  life,  awakened  in  his  heart  a  feeling  of  sad  contempt.  He 
grew  plain  and  blunt  in  his  speech,  careless  in  his  dress,  utterly  neglectful  of  etiquette, 
reserved,  almost  morose  in  manner,  and  solitary  in  his  ways. 

In  1832  he  determined  to  come  to  the  West  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  in  February 
of  that  year  arrived  in  Cincinnati.  While  making  arrangements  for  the  selection  of 
a  farm,  he  became  interested  in  the  study  of  the  law,  and  entered  the  office  of 
Timothy  Walker  as  a  student.  In  the  language  of  his  friend,  Wm.  H.  Channing,  "  The 
genial  atmosphere  of  the  Queen  City  presented  a  delightful  contrast  to  the  frigid  and 
artificial  tone  of  Boston  society.  In  the  place  of  fashionable  coldness,  aristocratic 
hauteur,  purse-pride  ostentation,  reserve,  non-committalism,  the  tyranny  of  cliques, 
and  the  fear  of  leaders,  he  found  himself  moving  among  a  pleasant  company  of  hos 
pitable,  easy,  confiding,  plain-spoken,  cheerful  friends,  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the 
Union,  and  loosed  at  once  by  choice  and  promiscuous  intercourse,  from  the  trammels 
of  bigotry  and  conventional  prejudice.  He  breathed  for  once  freely,  and  felt  with  joy 
tin;  blood  flowing  quick  and  warm  throughout  his  spiritual  frame.  He  caught,  too, 
the  buoyant  hopefulness  that  animates  a  young,  vigorous,  and  growing  community, 
and  mingled  delightedly  with  groups  of  high-hearted,  enterprising  men,  just  entering 
upon  new  careers,  and  impelled  by  the  hope  of  generous  service  in  the  literary,  pro 
fessional,  or  commercial  life." 

Mr.  Perkins  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  the  spring  of  1834,  and  early  in  the  follow 
ing  winter  was  married  to  Sarah  H.  Elliott,  a  lady  whose  tastes  and  character  were 
in  admirable  contrast  to  his  own,  thus  furnishing  a  basis  for  a  rare  intellectual  har 
mony,  which  proved  an  unfailing  spring  of  happiness  and  improvement  during  his 
subsequent  life.  His  commnKTment  in  the  practice  of  law  revealed  a  high  order  of 
l(-Lr;il  talent,  and  argued  the  most  brilliant  personal  success.  But  he  remained  only  a  short 
time  in  the  harness  of  jurisprudence.  He  found  the  practice  of  law  entirely  different 

(  154  ) 


1830-40.]  JAMES    H.    PERKINS.  155 

from  the  pure  and  delightful  excitement  of  the  study,  and  soon  abandoned  it  in  utter 
disgust.  His  reasons  for  this  step  were  the  bad  effects  of  a  sedentary  life  upon  his 
health,  the  depressing  intellectual  influence  of  the  drudgery  of  the  profession,  and  his 
repugnance  to  the  common  standard  of  morality  prevailing  at  the  bar. 

He  now  applied  himself  with  great  energy  to  the  uncertain  profession  of  literature, 
engaging  largely  in  editorial  labors,  and  frequently  contributing  to  several  important 
periodicals.  He  wrote  poems,  tales  and  essays  for  the  Western  Monthly  Magazine, 
edited  by  James  Hall,  and  was,  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1834,  the  editor  of  the 
Saturday  Evening  Chronicle,  which,  in  the  winter  of  1835,  he  purchased  and  united 
with  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  edited  and  published  by  Gallagher  and  Shreve.  He  was 
one  of  the  editors  of  the  Mirror  for  about  six  months.  Thomas  H.  Shreve,  who  was 
a  fellow-student  as  well  as  a  fellow-editor  at  that  time,  in  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Perkins,  said : 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  into  the  office  early  in  the  morning,  and,  without  any  prelimin 
aries,  would  proceed  to  his  table,  and  write  as  if  he  had  just  stepped  out  a  moment  before.  It  was 
one  of  his  characteristics,  I  think,  to  do  what  he  designed  doing  at  once,  for  he  was  a  true  economist 
of  time,  and  acted  while  persons  generally  would  be  getting  ready  to  act. 

He  would  frequently  turn  round  and  ask  my  opinion  of  some  subject  on  which  he  happened  to 
be  writing.  A  conversation,  perhaps  a  controversy,  would  ensue.  His  object  was  not  so  much  to 
ascertain  my  opinions,  as  to  place  his  own  mind  in  a  condition  to  act  sufficiently.  When  our  talk 
was  ended,  he  would  resume  his  writing. 

I  remember  well  his  appearance  in  the  Inquisition.*  His  speeches  in  that  society  were  always 
truly  admirable.  The  logic,  the  wit,  the  sunny  humor,  the  raillery,  were  alike  irresistible.  The 
same  wide  resources  of  mind  that  he  subsequently  displayed  in  the  pulpit  were  exhibited  in  the 
Inquisition  debates,  and  we  all  felt  that  when  we  had  him  as  an  opponent  we  had  much  to  fear.  I 
remember,  too,  his  lectures  on  •'  Fishes "  and  "  Insects,"  before  the  Mechanics'  Institute.  They 
embodied  the  most  graceful  and  witching  blending  together  of  humor  and  science  I  ever  listened 
to.  I  shall  never  forget  his  account  of  the  ant-lion,  which  convulsed  every  one  present.  Had  Mr. 
Perkins  devoted  himself  to  humorous  literature,  he  would  have  stood  at  the  head  of  American 
writers  in  that  line.  Indeed,  as  a  humorist,  original  and  gentle,  he  could  scarcely  be  excelled. 
But  so  well  developed  were  all  the  faculties  of  his  mind,  that,  notwithstanding  the  prominence  of 
his  humor  when  compared  with  the  humor  of  others,  it  only  balanced  his  other  faculties. 

In  the  summer  of  1835,  Mr.  Perkins  engaged  with  two  or  three  friends  in  a  manu 
facturing  enterprise  at  Pomeroy,  Ohio.  Active  exercise  kept  him  in  health,  and  for 
a  few  months  he  was  contented  at  Pomeroy,  superintending  and  planning  for  a  large 
company  of  workmen ;  but  the  enterprise  was  not  remunerative,  and,  in  the  autumn 
of  1837,  Mr.  Perkins  abandoned  it  and  returned  to  Cincinnati.  He  projected  several 
books,  but  the  following  year  completed  only  a  series  of  critical  and  historical  articles 
for  the  New  York  Quarterly,  and  the  North  American  Review. 

In  January,  1838,  he  delivered  an  address  before  the  Ohio  Historical  Society, 
at  Columbus,  on  "Subjects  of  Western  History."  He  immediately  afterward 
projected  "The  Annals  of  the  West,"f  which,  as  William  H.  Channing  has  said,  is 
"a  work  whose  accuracy,  completeness,  thoroughness  of  research,  clear  method,  and 
graceful  perspicuity  of  style  show  his  admirable  qualifications  for  an  historian." 

*  A  literary  society  composed  of  the  writers  and  students  of  the  city. 

t  Annal?  of  the  West;  embracing  a  concise  account  of  the  principal  events  in  the  Western  States  and  Territories, 
from  the  discovery  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  to  1845,  hy  James  H.  Perkins.  James  Albach,  Cincinnati,  1847. 


JAMES    11.    PERKINS.  [1630-40. 


In  articles*  on  "Early  French  Travelers  in  the  West,"  "English  Discoveries  in 
the  Ohio  Valley,"  "Fifty  Years  of  Ohio,"  "The  Pioneers  of  Kentucky,"  "The  Korth- 
Western  Territory,"  and  on  "The  Literature  of  the  West,"  Mr.  Perkins  exhibited 
not  only  penetrating  analysis,  sound  judgment,  and  regard  for  truth,  but  liberal  fore 
sight,  and  abiding  faith. 

In  1839  Mr.  Perkins  became  Minister-at-large  to  the  poor  of  Cincinnati.  He  gave 
his  best  powers  of  mind  and  body,  with  earnest  devotion,  to  the  numerous  duties  that 
office  required,  and  instituted  benevolent  enterprises  from  which  the  poor  of  Cincin 
nati  now  derive  protection  and  consolation.  Peculiar  gifts  of  sympathetic  presenti 
ment,  and  of  eloquent  speech,  together  with  Christian  feeling  and  purpose,  manifested 
by  Mr.  Perkins  as  Minister-at-large,  led  the  Unitarian  Society  of  Cincinnati,  in  1841, 
to  invite  him  to  become  its  pastor.  He  accepted.  He  did  not,  however,  forego  liter 
ary  pursuits,  and  he  manifested  wise  and  active  interest  in  public  education,  visiting 
schools  and  delivering  lectures,  criticising  old  and  suggesting  new  methods.  Especially 
did  he  demonstrate  the  wisdom  of  better  education  for  girls  than  either  public  or 
private  schools  then  usually  afforded. 

In  1844  Mr.  Perkins  was  chosen  President  of  the  Cincinnati  Historical  Society, 
then  organized.  In  1849,  when  the  Ohio  and  Cincinnati  Historical  Societies  were 
united,  he  became  Vice  President  and  Recording  Secretary.  Although  his  most  inti 
mate  friends  assured  him  that  he  had  remarkable  gifts  as  a  preacher,  though  his 
church  was  always  crowded  when  he  preached,  though  he  had  good  reason  to  believe 
that  his  sermons  were  not  without  practical  usefulness,  Mr.  Perkins  was  never  satis 
fied  with  his  pastoral  relation,  and,  in  1847,  resigned  it.  His  resignation  was  not 
accepted.  The  leading  members  of  the  Society  conferred  with  him,  and  at  their 
request,  under  changes  of  organization,  which  he  deemed  important,  he  withdrew  his 
resignation,  and  remained  in  the  pastoral  charge  of  the  Unitarian  Church  until  his 
death,  which  took  place  suddenly  on  the  fourteenth  of  December,  1849. 

I  often  heard  Mr.  Perkins  preach,  in  the  later  years  of  his  ministry,  and  I  can  fully 
indorse  what  William  Greene  of  Cincinnati  has  said  of  him : 

Some  of  his  noblest  efforts  have  been  upon  commonplace  occurrences,  not  twenty -four  hours  old 
at  the  time,  when  he  would  astonish  us  with  his  amazing  powers  of  statement  and  analysis,  or  by 
the  inculcation  of  some  most  impressive  lesson  which  they  suggested.  Nor  was  any  considerable 
part  of  his  power  in  any  thing  that  was  merely  oratorical  5  for  his  manner,  though  always  earnest, 
\v;is  always  simple.  He  had  no  tricks  of  imposing  form,  as  too  many  have,  to  eke  out  deficiency 
or  inanity  of  substance. 

He  felt  that  every  event  in  the  development  of  humanity,  of  whatever  grade  in  the  scale  of 
merely  factitious  standards,  was,  in  solemn  reality,  an  essential  part  of  the  Providence  of  God,  and 
as  such,  of  highest  moment  in  the  proper  estimate  of  man.  Acting,  thinking,  and  speaking  under 
this  conviction  to  others,  with  the  application  of  his  extraordinary  intellectual  power  in  enforcing 
his  thoughts,  he  gave  to  ordinary  experiences  a  commanding  interest.  To  him  was  conceded,  by 
judicious  minds,  that  authority  which  is  due  only  to  unpretending  and  assured  wisdom,  united  with 
the  spirit  of  disinterested  benevolence.  Every  one  felt  that  his  word  was  true,  and  his  advice  con 
siderate  and  well  matured.  This  distinction  gave  him  a  sway  over  public  opinion,  which,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  devolved  upon  him  the  weightiest  responsibilities  for  the  public  good,  he  did  not 
fail  to  apply,  and  with  gratifying  success,  to  the  most  honorable  and  useful  ends. 

•Contributed  to  the  Neiv  York  Review  and  North  American  Review. 


1830-40.]  JAMES    II .    PERKINS.  157 

For  nearly  twenty  years  Mr.  Perkins  had  been  subject  to  a  sudden  rush  of  blood 
to  the  head,  which  produced  distressing  vertigo,  at  times  impairing  his  sight  and  pro 
ducing  the  deepest  despondency ;  and  within  five  or  six  years  previous  to  his  decease, 
he  had  suffered  so  severely  from  palpitation  of  the  heart,  that  in  consequence  of  this 
accumulation  of  ills,  his  reason  had  occasionally  been  wandering  for  short  periods. 
On  the  day  of  his  death,  a  paroxysm  of  this  kind  was  produced  by  the  supposed  loss 
of  his  two  boys,  one  nine,  the  other  seven  years  of  age,  who  had  gone  from  their  home 
on  Walnut  Hills,  to  Cincinnati.  After  a  most  fatiguing  and  anxious  search,  that  was 
finally  relinquished  in  despair,  Mr.  Perkins  walked  (four  miles)  to  Walnut  Hills,  and 
arrived  at  his  house,  which  his  children  had  reached  before  him,  in  a  state  of  intense 
excitement  and  complete  exhaustion.  He  was  restless  and  nervous  to  a  degree  never 
before  witnessed  by  his  family,  and  near  evening  he  remarked  that  he  would  take  a 
walk  to  calm  his  nerves,  but  would  not  be  gone  long.  He  was  never  seen  again,  by 
either  his  family  or  friends.  About  six  o'clock  P.  M.,  as  was  afterward  ascertained, 
he  went  on  board  the  Jamestown*  ferry-boat,  with  arms  folded  and  eyes  downcast,  lie 
was  not  seen  to  leave  the  boat,  and  it  is  supposed  that,  when  not  observed,  threw  him 
self  overboard  and  was  drowned.  This  distressing  event  cast  the  deepest  gloom  over 
the  city  of  his  adoption.  Notwithstanding  the  most  strenuous  efforts  were  made 
for  the  recovery  of  the  remains  of  the  deceased,  they  were  never  discovered. 

I  saw  Mr.  Perkins,  at  the  corner  of  Fourth  and  Sycamore  streets,  Cincinnati,  when 
he  was  in  quest  of  his  children.  The  painful,  despairing  look  he  gave  an  omnibus 
conductor,  of  whom  he  inquired  in  vain  for  tidings,  I  can  never  forget. 

Mr.  Channing  has  said  truly  of  Mr.  Perkins : 

Faultless,  or  wholly  freed  from  the  evils  of  temperament,  training,  caprice,  indulgence,  habit, 
Mr.  Perkins  confessedly  was  not;  but  progressive,  aspiring,  humble,  honest,  centrally  disinterested, 
he  undeniably  was.  The  utmost  impulse  of  his  will  was  right.  His  eye  was  single.  He  had 
chosen  the  good  as  his  law.  His  life  was  to  seek  the  inspiration  of  Divine  Love,  and  to  make  his 
thoughts  and  acts  a  fitting  medium  for  its  transmission.  .  .  .  With  unconscious  ease,  from  boy 
hood  upward,  he  had  poured  forth  verses ;  but  the  true  poet  was  to  him  in  so  sublime  a  sense 
a  prophet,  that  he  was  never  willing  to  class  himself  among  that  chosen  band.  In  a  lecture  on 
Polite  Literature,  in  1840,  he  asks,  "What  is  it  that  makes  a  work  poetical  ?  I  answer,  it  is  that 
in  it  which  awakens  the  sense  of  the  divine — appealing  to  the  heart  through  some  form  of  sublim 
ity,  or  beauty — some  holy  emotion— some  association  of  heavenly  affections  with  common  experi 
ence.  The  poetic  element  is  that  which  lifts  us  to  the  spiritual  world.  It  is  a  divine  essence,  that 
makes  human  speech  poetry.  The  two  grand  powers  of  the  poet  are,  first,  that  of  perceiving  what 
awakens  a  sense  of  the  divine  ;  and  second,  that  of  expressing  what  is  poetical  in  such  words  and 
by  such  style  as  to  give  its  true  impression.  These  two  powers  may  exist  apart.  A  critic  may  feel 
when  the  sense  of  the  divine  is  awakened,  but  he  cannot  be  a  poet  without  the  inventive  imagina 
tion  that  can  give  to  it  a  local  embodiment  and  a  name.  Poetry  is  not  rhyme  or  verse  merely  ;  but 
it  is  that  chord  in  the  human  heart  which  sends  forth  harmony  when  struck  by  the  hand  of  nature, 
that  essential  spirit  of  beauty  which  speaks  from  the  soul,  in  the  highest  works  of  sculpture  or 
painting,  which  gives  eloquence  to  the  orator,  and  is  heard  as  the  voice  of  God."  It  was  in  his 
eloquence  as  an  orator,  that  his  own  poetic  genius  most  appeared. 

*A  Tillage  on  the  Ohio  Kiver,  three  miles  above  Cincinnati. 


JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 


[1830-40. 


SPIRITUAL  PRESENCE. 

IT  is  a  beautiful  belief, 
That  ever  round  our  head 
Are  hovering,  on  noiselesss  wing, 
The  spirits  of  the  dead. 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 
When  ended  our  career, 
That  it  will  be  our  ministry 
To  watch  o'er  others  here  ; 

To  lend  a  moral  to  the  flower ; 
Breathe  wisdom  on  the  wind ; 
To  hold  commune,  at  night's  pure  noon, 
"With  the  imprison'd  mind ; 

To  bid  the  mourners  cease  to  mourn. 
The  trembling  be  forgiven  ; 
To  bear  away,  from  ills  of  clay, 
The  infant  to  its  heaven. 

Ah !  when  delight  was  found  in  life, 
And  joy  in  every  breath, 
I  cannot  tell  how  terrible 
The  mystery  of  death. 

But  now  the  past  is  bright  to  me, 
And  all  the  future  clear ; 
For  'tis  my  faith,  that  after  death 
I  still  shall  linger  here. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  GRAVE. 

HE  had  a  single  child ;  and  she 
Wa-  beautiful  to  that  degree, 
That  not  a  boor  the  country  round, 
But  shook  for  very  awe  and  fear, 
And  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Whenever  she  drew  near; 
The  soul  that  stirred  her  feeble  limb 
\\  ;i-  .-iidi  a  ^iant  mind  to  him. 
And  yet  she  was  the  kindest  thing, 


It  seems  to  me,  that  ever  lived ; 
Nor  summer's  heat,  nor  winter's  cold, 
Could  keep  her  from  the  sick  man's  side ; 
With  fearless  step  she  trod  the  wold — 
The  mountain  torrent  she  defied — 
And  if  she  found  that  death,  indeed, 
Had  grasped  him  with  his  clammy  hand, 
Then  'twas  her  joy  to  bid  him  speed, 
Unerring  to  that  better  land. 
With  lines  of  light  she  drew  the  bowers, 
In  which  the  blessed  shall  repose; 
And  told,  in  music,  of  the  hours, 
When  from  error,  and  the  woes 
That  cluster  round  each  footstep  here, 
We  shall  go  up  from  sphere  to  sphere — 
Where  mind  of  man  hath  never  flown, 
Nor  foot  of  seraph  ever  trod ; 
Beyond  the  ever-living  fount — 
Beyond  the  dim,  mysterious  mount — 
Beyond  the  last  archangel's  throne, 
Into  the  very  presence  of  our  God. 
At  length  we  missed  her  pleasant  voice : 
It  was  the  spring-tide  of  the  year ; 
And  when  we  broke  the  clotted  soil, 
And  scattered  the  mysterious  grain, 
She  did  not  come  to  share  our  toil ; 
And  in  the  village  there  were  some 
That  whispered,  that  she  could  not  come. 
Alas  !  she  never  came  again. 
She  died.     And  when  the  truth  was  known, 
There  came  upon  our  vale  a  gloom — 
Upon  our  sunny  vale,  a  chill — 
As  though  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 
Had  clothed  each  neighboring  hill. 
We  could  not  think  that  she  was  dead : 
How  could  she  die — that  perfect  being — 
And  moulder  into  powerless  dust  ? 
But  it  was  so  ;  we  dug  her  grave, 
And  laid  her  by  her  mother's  side. 
This  is  the  spot.     The  rank  weeds  wave 
Upon  it  since  the  father  died. 
But  still,  along  the  shore,  the  surge 
Chanteth  her  melancholy  dirge  ; 
And  still  the  glow-worm's  funeral  light 
Above  her  burns ;  and  still,  you  see, 
Droopeth  the  solemn  willow  tree ; 


1830-40.] 


JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


159 


And  the  dews  weep  her,  night  by  night. 

And  still  at  morn  our  peasants  say, 

As  darkness  melteth  into  day, 

Unearthly  music  floats  away 

Above  this  lonely  spot : 

And  still  our  village  maidens  tell, 

How  sometimes,  at  the  vesper  bell, 

A  form — they  know  not  what — 

Comes  dimly  on  the  breathless  air, 

Betwixt  them  and  the  western  sky, 

And  awes  them — 'tis  so  strange,  so  fair — 

Till  mingling  with  the  colors  there, 

The  scarce-seen  features  die. 

It  may  be  only  fancy's  hand 

That  paints  it ;  or  it  may  be  fear ; 

Or  it  may  be  the  spirit  bland 

Of  her  that  slumbers  here. 

But,  ah !  we  never  more  shall  see, 

By  homely  hearth,  or  woodland  tree, 

Another  maiden  such  as  she. 


THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER. 

OH  !  was  ye  ne'er  a  school-boy  ? 

And  did  you  never  train, 

And  feel  that  swelling  of  the  heart 

You  cannot  feel  again  ? 

Didst  never  meet,  far  down  the  street, 

With  plumes  and  banners  gay, 

While  the  kettle,  for  the  kettle-drum 

Played  your  march,  march  away  ? 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday, 

Nor  scarce  so  long  ago, 

Since  we  shouldered  our  muskets 

To  charge  the  fearful  foe. 

Our  muskets  were  of  cedar  wood, 

With  ramrod  bright  and  new ; 

With  bayonet  forever  set, 

And  painted  barrel  too. 

We  charged  upon  a  flock  of  geese, 
And  put  them  all  to  flight, 


Except  one  sturdy  gander 
That  thought  to  show  us  fight: 
But,  ah  !   we  knew  a  thing  or  two ; 
Our  captain  wheeled  the  van — 
We  routed  him,  we  scouted  him, 
Nor  lost  a  single  man. 

Our  captain  was  as  brave  a  lad 

As  e'er  commission  bore  ; 

All  brightly  shone  his  good  tin  sword, 

And  a  paper  cap  he  wore  ; 

He  led  us  up  the  hill-side, 

Against  the  western  wind, 

While  the  cockerel  plume,  that  decked 

his  head, 
Streamed  bravely  out  behind. 

We  shouldered  arms,  we  carried  arms, 

We  charged  the  bayonet ; 

And  woe  unto  the  mullen  stalk 

That  in  our  course  we  rnet. 

At  two  o'clock  the  roll  was  called, 

And  till  the  close  of  day, 

With  our  brave  and  plumed  captain 

We  fought  the  mimic  fray, — 

When  the  supper-bell,  we  knew  so  well, 

Came  stealing  up  from  out  the  dell, 

For  our  march,  march  away. 


POVERTY  AND  KNOWLEDGE. 

AH  !  dearest,  we  are  young  and  strong, 
With  ready  heart  and  ready  will 

To  tread  the  world's  bright  paths  along ; 
But  poverty  is  stronger  still. 

Yet,  my  dear  wife,  there  is  a  might 
That  may  bid  poverty  defiance, — 

The  might  of  knowledge ;  from  this  night 
Let  us  on  her  put  our  reliance. 

Armed  with  her  scepter,  to  an  hour 

We  may  condense  whole  years  and  ages; 

Bid  the  departed,  by  her  power, 

Arise,  and  talk  with  seers  and  sages. 


u;o 


JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


[1830-40. 


Her  word,  to  teach  us,  may  bid  stop 
The  noonday  sun  ;  yea,  she  is  able 

To  make  an  ocean  of  a  drop, 

Or  spread  a  kingdom  on  our  table. 

In  her  great  name  we  need  but  call 

Scott,  Schiller,  Shakspeare,  and,  behold ! 

The  suffering  Mary  smiles  on  all, 
And  Falstaff  riots  as  of  old. 

Then,  wherefore  should  we  leave  this  hearth, 
Our  books,  and  all  our  pleasant  labors, 

If  we  can  have  the  whole  round  earth, 
And  still  retain  our  home  and  neighbors? 

Why  wish  to  roam  in  other  lands  ? 

Or  mourn  that  poverty  hath  bound  us  ? 
We  have  our  hearts,  our  heads,  our  hands, 

Enough  to  live  on, — friends  around  us, — 

And,  more  than  all,  have  hope  and  love, 
Ah,  dearest,  while  these  last,  be  sure 

That,  if  there  be  a  God  above, 
We  are  not,  and  cannot  be  poor ! 


SONG. 

OH  !  merry,  merry  be  the  day, 

And  bright  the  star  of  even — 
For  'tis  our  duty  to  be  gay, 
And  tread  in  holy  joy  our  way ; 
Grief  never  came  from  Heaven, 

My  love — 
It  never  came  from  Heaven. 

Tin  n  let  us  not,  though  woes  betide, 
Complain  of  fortune's  spite,  love ; 
As  rock-encircled  trees  combine, 
And  nearer  grow,  and  closer  twine, 
So  let  our  hearts  unite, 

My  love — 
So  let  our  hearts  unite. 


And  though  the  circle  here  be  small 

Of  heartily  approved  ones, 
There  is  a  home  beyond  the  skies, 
Where  vice  shall  sink  and  virtue  rise, 
Till  all  become  the  loved  ones, 

Love — 
Till  all  become  the  loved  ones. 

Then  let  your  eye  be  laughing  still, 

And  cloudless  be  your  brow ; 
For  in  that  better  world  above, 
O!  many  myriads  shall  we  love, 
As  one  another  now, 

My  love — 
As  one  another  now. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  CHILD. 

STAND  back,  uncovered  stand,  for  lo ! 

The  parents  who  have  lost  their  child 
Bow  to  the  majesty  of  woe ! 

He  came,  a  herald  from  above, — 

Pure  from  his  God,  he  came  to  them, 

Teaching  new  duties,  deeper  love ; 
And,  like  the  boy  of  Bethlehem, 

He  grew  in  stature  and  in  grace. 

From  the  sweet  spirit  of  his  face 

They  learned  a  new,  more  heavenly  joy, 
And  were  the  better  for  their  boy. 

But  God  hath  taken  whom  he  gave, 
Recalled  the  messenger  he  sent ; 

And  now  beside  the  infant's  grave 
The  spirit  of  the  strong  is  bent. 

But  though  the  tears  must  flow,  the  heart 

Ache  with  a  vacant,  strange  distress, — 
Ye  did  not  from  your  infant  part 

When  his  clear  eye  grew  meaningless. 
That  eye  is  beaming  still,  and  still 

Upon  his  Father's  errand  he, 
Your  own  dear,  bright,  unearthly  boy, 
Worketh  the  kind,  mysterious  will, 

And  from  this  fount  of  bitter  grief 
Will  bring  a  stream  of  joy  ; — 

O,  may  this  be  your  faith  and  your  relief! 


1830-40.] 


JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


161 


Then  will  the  world  be  full  of  him ;  the  sky, 
With  all  its  placid  myriads,  to  your  eye 
Will  tell  of  him ;  the  wind  will  breathe 

his  tone ; 
And  slumbering  in  the  midnight,  they 

alone, 

Your  father  and  your  child,  will  hover  nigh. 

Believe  in  him,  behold  him  every  where,  i 

And  sin  will  die  within  you,  earthly  care  | 

Fall  to  its  earth,  and  heavenward,  side  by 

side, 

Ye  shall  go  up  beyond  this  realm  of  storms, 
Quick   and  more  quick,  till,  welcomed 

there  above, 
His  voice  shall  bid  you,  in  the  might  of 

love, 

Lay  down  these  weeds  of  earth,  and  wear 
your  native  forms. 


MY  FUTURE. 

MISFORTUNE  o'er  the  present  day 
May  govern  with  unquestioned  sway ; 
But  in  that  world  which  is  to  be, 
How  poor,  how  powerless  is  she ! 
Though  pain  and  poverty  their  might, 
With  fearful  death,  should  all  unite 
To  crush  me  to  the  earth, 
Still  would  the  elastic  spirit  rise, 
The  suffering  and  the  fear  despise, 
And  seek  beyond  the  opening  skies 
The  country  of  its  birth. 
There  unto  me  it  may  be  given, 
Amid  the  countless  hosts  of  heaven, 
Amid  the  bright,  seraphic  band, 
Before  my  Father's  throne  to  stand, 
Before  my  Savior's  face  to  bow, — 
A  seraph's  scepter  in  my  hand, 
A  seraph's  crown  upon  my  brow. 
Then  unto  me  the  power  may  be, 
With  kind  and  gentle  ministry, 
To  bid  the  warring  cease, — 
To  cause  the  shades  of  sorrow  flee, 
And  bring  the  mourner  peace. 


Or  in  a  wider  sphere  of  good, 
Above  some  universe  of  strife, 
Dove-like,  it  may  be  mine  to  brood, 
And  still  the  chaos  into  life. 

O,  when  I  dwell  on  thoughts  like  these, 
My  spirit  seems  to  hear  the  cry, 
"  Come  up  ! " — and,  listening  to  the  call, 
Earth's  dearest  pleasures  quickly  pall ; 
The  scales  from  off  my  vision  fall, 
A.nd  1  could  pray  to  die. 


MARQUETTE.' 


SINK  to  my  heart,  bright  evening  skies ! 

Ye  waves  that  round  me  roll, 
With  all  your  golden,  crimson  dyes, 

Sink  deep  into  my  soul ! 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars, — that  come 

So  silently  at  even, 
To  make  this  world  awhile  your  home, 

And  bring  us  nearer  heaven, — 
Speak  to  my  spirit's  listening  ear 

With  your  calm  tones  of  beauty, 
And  to  my  darkened  mind  make  clear 

My  errors  and  my  duty. 

II. 

Speak  to  my  soul  of  those  who  went 

Across  this  stormy  lake, 
On  deeds  of  mercy  ever  bent 

For  the  poor  Indian's  sake. 
They  looked  to  all  of  you,  and  each 

Leant  smiling  from  above, 
And  taught  the  Jesuit  how  to  teach 

The  omnipotence  of  love. 
You  gave  the  apostolic  tone 

To  Marquette's  guileless  soul, 
Whose  life  and  labors  shall  be  known 

Long  as  these  waters  roll. 

*  Composed  on  Lake  Michigan,  by  the  river  where  Mar- 
quette  died. 


11 


JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


[1830-40. 


To  him  the  little  Indian  child, 

Fearless  and  trustful  came, 
Curbed  for  a  time  his  temper  wild, 

And  hid  his  heart  of  ilame. 
With  gentle  voice,  and  gentle  look, 

Sweet  evening  star,  like  thine, 
That  heart  the  missionary  took 

From  off  the  war-god's  shrine, 
And  laid  it  on  the  Holy  Book, 

Before  the  Man  Divine. 
The  blood-stained  demons  saw  with  grief 

Far  from  their  magic  ring, 
Around  their  now  converted  chief, 

The  tribe  come  gathering. 
Marquette's  belief  was  their  belief, 

And  Jesus  was  their  king. 
Fierce  passions'  late  resistless  drift 

Drives  now  no  longer  by  ; 
'Tis  rendered  powerless  by  the  gift 

Of  heaven-fed  charity. 

in. 

Speak  to  my  heart,  ye  stars,  and  tell 

How,  on  yon  distant  shore, 
The  world-worn  Jesuit  bade  farewell 

To  those  that  rowed  him  o'er ; 
Told  them  to  sit  and  wait  him  there, 

And  break  their  daily  food, 
While  he  to  his  accustomed  prayer 

Retired  within  the  wood ; 
And  how  they  saw  the  day  go  round, 

Wondering  he  came  not  yet, 
Then  sought  him  anxiously,  and  found, 

Not  the  kind,  calm  Marquette — 
He  silently  had  passed  away — 

But  on  the  greensward  there, 
Before  the  crucifix,  his  clay 

Still  kneeling,  as  in  prayer. 

IV. 

Nor  let  me  as  a  fable  deem, 

Told  by  some  artful  knave, 
The  legend,  that  the  lonely  stream, 

By  which  they  dug  his  grave, 
When  wint'ry  torrents  from  above 

Swept  with  resistless  force, 


Knew  and  revered  the  man  of  love, 

And  changed  its  rapid  course, 
And  left  the  low,  sepulchral  mound 

Uninjured  by  its  side, 
And  spared  the  consecrated  ground 

Where  he  had  knelt  and  died. 
Nor  ever  let  my  weak  mind  rail 

At  the  poor  Indian, 
Who,  when  the  fierce  north-western  gale 

Swept  o'er  Lake  Michigan, 
In  the  last  hour  of  deepest  dread 

Knew  of  one  resource  yet, 
And  stilled  the  thunder  overhead 

By  calling  on  Marquette ! 

V. 

Sink  to  my  heart,  sweet  evening  skies  ! 

Ye  darkening  waves  that  roll 
Around  me, — ye  departing  dyes, — 

Sink  to  my  inmost  soul ! 
Teach  to  my  heart  of  hearts,  that  fact, 

Unknown,  though  known  so  well, 
That  in  each  feeling,  act,  and  thought, 

God  works  by  miracle. 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars,  that  come 

So  quietly  at  even, 
Teach  me  to  use  this  world,  my  home, 

So  as  to  make  it  heaven ! 


TO  A  CHILD. 

MY  little  friend,  I  love  to  trace 
Those  lines  of  laughter  on  thy  face, 
Which  seems  to  be  the  dwelling-place 

Of  all  that's  sweet : 
And  bend  with  pride  to  thy  embrace 

Whene'er  we  meet. 

For  though  the  beauty  of  the  flower, 

Or  of  the  sky  at  sunset  hour, 

Or  when  the  threat'ning  tempests  lower, 

May  be  divine, 
Yet  unto  me  but  weak  their  power 

Compared  with  thine. 


1830-40.] 


JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


163 


And  though  the  ocean  waves,  which  roll 
From  the  equator  to  the  pole, 
May  tell  us  of  a  God's  control, 

Yet  poor  they  be, 
When  measur'd  by  the  living  soul 

Which  burns  in  thee. 

Of  vast,  strange  cities  we  are  told, 
That  were  in  the  dim  days  of  old ; 
Of  thrones  of  ivory  and  gold, 

By  jewels  hid; 
And  temples  of  gigantic  mould, 

And  pyramid : 

But  I  would  brave  a  hundred  toils 
To  watch  thy  little  ways  and  wiles, 
And  bathe  my  spirit  in  thy  smiles, 

And  hear  thy  call, 
Rather  than  walk  a  dozen  miles 

To  see  them  all. 

For  thou,  when  folly  hath  beguiled, 
Or  selfishness,  or  sense  defiled, 
Thou  meetest  me,  my  little  child, 

Fresh  with  my  stain — 
But  when  upon  me  thou  hast  smiled, 

I'm  pure  again. 

Oh,  then,  by  thee  I  could  be  led 

With  joy  life's  humblest  walk  to  tread : 

The  lowliest  roof,  the  hardest  bed, 

Were  all  I'd  ask; 
To  raise  my  heart  above  my  head 

Should  be  my  task. 

What  then  to  me  the  diamond  stone  ? 
And  what  the  gem-encircled  zone  ? 
And  what  the  harp's  bewitching  tone  ? 

Thine  azure  eye, 
Thy  ruddy  cheek,  and  laugh,  alone, 

Would  satisfy. 

And  though  all  fortune  were  denied 
I'd  struggle  still  against  the  tide, 
Nor  pray  for  any  wealth  beside, 

If  I  could  be 
The  parent,  governor,  and  guide 

Of  one  like  thee. 


THE  VOICE  THAT  BADE  THE  DEAD  ARISE. 

THE  voice  that  bade  the  dead  arise, 
And  gave  back  vision  to  the  blind, 

Is  hushed ;  but  when  He  sought  the  skies, 
Our  Master  left  his  Word  behind. 

'Twas  not  to  calm  the  billows'  roll, 
'Twas  not  to  bid  the  hill  be  riven ; 

No !  'twas  to  lift  the  fainting  soul, 

And  lead  the  erring  back  to  heaven, — 

To  heave  a  mountain  from  the  heart, 
To  bid  those  inner  springs  be  stirred. 

Lord,  to  thy  servant  here  impart 

The  quickening  wisdom  of  that  Word ! 

Dwell,  Father,  in  this  earthly  fane, 
And,  when  its  feeble  walls  decay, 

Be  with  us  till  we  meet  again 
Amid  thy  halls  of  endless  day. 


HYMN. 

ALMIGHTY  God !  with  hearts  of  flesh 
Into  thy  presence  we  have  come, 

To  breathe  our  filial  vows  afresh, 

To  make  thy  house  once  more  our  home. 

We  know  that  thou  art  ever  nigh ; 

We  know  that  thou  art  with  us  here, — 
That  every  action  meets  thine  eye, 

And  every  secret  thought  thine  ear. 

But  grant  us,  God,  this  truth  to  feel, 
As  well  as  know ;  grant  us  the  grace, 

Somewhat  as  Adam  knew  thee,  still 
To  know  and  see  thee,  face  to  face. 

Here,  while  we  breathe  again  our  vows, 

Appointing  one  to  minister 
In  holy  things  within  this  house, 

Grant  us  to  feel  that  Thou  art  here. 


HUGH  PETE11S. 


HUGH  PETERS  was  born  at  Hebron,  Tolland  county,  Connecticut,  in  January,  1807. 
Having  received  a  liberal  education,  he  studied  law,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  been  admit 
ted  to  the  bar,  cast  his  fortune  in  Cincinnati.  He  was  received  with  marked  tokens  of 
good-will,  into  the  literary  circles  which  existed  in  that  city  in  1829,  and  became 
an  admired  writer  for  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle  and  the  Illinois  Magazine. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Saturday,  June  eleventh,  1831,  his  body  was  found  in  the 
Ohio  River,  near  Lawrenceburg,  Indiana.  He  was  known  to  have  retired  to  his  room, 
as  usual,  on  Thursday  night.  On  Friday  morning  he  was  missed,  but  as  he  had  signi 
fied  an  intention  to  go  to  Lawrenceburg,  no  uneasiness  was  felt  until  Sunday  morning. 
His  room  was  then  visited,  and  it  was  apparent  to  his  friends  that  no  ordinary  circum 
stances  had  called  him  away.  A  messenger  was  immediately  sent  to  Lawrenceburg. 
He  returned  with  the  melancholy  information  that  Mr.  Peters  was  dead  and  buried. 
The  remains  were  disinterred  and  removed  to  Cincinnati. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Cincinnati  bar,  held  June  third,  1831,  at  which  Charles  Ham 
mond  presided,  resolutions,  presented  by  Benjamin  Drake,  expressing  high  admiration 
ior  Mr.  Peters's  character  and  talents,  and  deep  regret  for  his  early  death,  wrere  unan 
imously  adopted. 

In  the  Illinois  Magazine  for  June,  1831,  James  Hall  published  an  obituary  notice, 
in  which  he  said : 

Jiy  his  talents,  sterling  integrity,  and  amiable  deportment,  he  had  won  the  esteem  of  all  who  had 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  him.  It  is  seldom  the  lot  of  any  young  man  to  begin  the  world  with 
brighter  prospects  than  those  which  opened  before  Mr.  Peters :  his  solid  worth,  his  unblemished 
character,  aud  inoffensive  manners,  conciliated  for  him  the  confidence  of  the  public,  and  the  affec 
tion  of  a  large  circle  of  friends  ;  and  it  is  believed  that  he  had  no  enemy. 

The  successful  career  of  such  a  man,  rising  fast  into  competence  and  honor,  by  his  own  moral 
worth  and  honest  exertions,  should  stimulate  the  ambition,  and  strengthen  the  virtue,  of  the  young; 
as  it  affords  an  honorable  proof  that  there  is  a  broad  and  a  bright  path  to  professional  success,  whicJi 
geniuti  aud  integrity  may  tread,  without  the  aid  of  artifice,  or  the  influence  of  patronage  ;  while 
it*  brevity  speaks  a  lesson  which  none  should  disregard. 

Mr.  Peters's  writings  were  marked  with  good  sense,  and  correct  taste.  He  gave 
promise  of  more  than  ordinary  success  in  both  prose  and  poetry.  In  criticism  he  was 
skilled,  and  some  of  his  literary  reviews  evinced  the  same  quality  which  Mr.  Hall 
notices  in  his  eulogy.  He  was  conscientious,  in  a  high  degree ;  and  if  the  precise 
merits  of  a  work  submitted  to  his  examination,  were  not  clearly  and  honestly  set  forth 
in  hid  remarks,  the  fault  was  with  his  judgment,  and  with  nothing  else. 

His  "Native  Land,"  which  was  contributed  to  the  Illinois  Magazine  in  1831,  will 
•. -on i pare  favorably  with  the  best  poems  of  its  character  in  the  language.  It  reminds  one 
of  Byron's  "  Good  Night,"  but  simply  through  its  excellencies ;  it  irresistibly  calls 
Shelley  to  mind,  but  only  by  reason  of  the  similarity  in  the  truthfulness  of  the  pro- 
plx-tic  strains  which  foretold  or  fore-indicated  the  particular  kind  of  death  which  either 

should  die. 

(164) 


1830-40.] 


HUGH    PETERS. 


165 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

THE  boat  swings  from  the  pebbled  shore, 

And  proudly  drives  her  prow  ; 
The  crested  waves  roll  up  before  : 
Yon  dark,  gray  land,  I  see  no  more — 

How  sweet  it  seemeth  now ! 
Thou  dark  gray  land,  my  Native  Land, 

Thou  land  of  rock  and  pine, 
I'm  speeding  from  thy  golden  sand ; 
But  can  I  wave  a  farewell  hand 

To  such  a  shore  as  thine  ? 

I've  gazed  upon  the  golden  cloud 

Which  shades  thine  emerald  sod ; 
Thy   hills,  which   Freedom's  share   hath 

plowed, 
Which  nurse  a  race  that  have  not  bowed 

Their  knee  to  aught  but  God ; 
Thy  mountain  floods,  which  proudly  fling 

Their  waters  to  the  fall — 
Thy  birds,  which  cut  with  rushing  wing 
The  sky  that  greets  thy  coming  Spring, 

And  thought  thy  glories  small ; 

But  now  ye've  shrunk  to  yon  blue  line 

Between  the  sky  and  sea, 
I  feel,  sweet  home,  that  thou  art  mine, 
I  feel  my  bosom  cling  to  thine — 

That  I  am  part  of  thee. 
I  see  thee  blended  with  the  wave, 

As  children  see  the  earth 
Close  up  a  sainted  mother's  grave ; 
They  weep  for  her  they  cannot  save, 

And  feel  her  holy  worth. 

Thou  mountain  land — thou  land  of  rock, 

I'm  proud  to  call  thee  free  ; 
Thy  sons  are  of  the  pilgrim  stock, 
And  nerved  like  those  who  stood  the  shock 

At  old  Thermopylae. 
The  laurel  wreaths  their  fathers  won — 

The  children  wear  them  still — 
Proud  deeds  those  iron  men  have  done! 
They  fought  and  won  at  Bennington, 

And  bled  at  Bunker  Hill. 


There's  grandeur  in  the  lightning  stroke 

That  rives  thy  mountain  ash; 
There's  glory  in  thy  giant  oak, 
And  rainbow  beauty  in  the  smoke 

Where  crystal  waters  dash : 
There's  music  in  thy  winter  blast 

That  sweeps  the  hollow  glen  ; 
Less  sturdy  sons  would  shrink  aghast 
From  piercing  winds  like  those  thou  hast 

To  nurse  thine  iron  men. 

And  thou  hast  gems ;  aye,  living  pearls  ; 

And  flowers  of  Eden  hue  : 
Thy  loveliest,  are  thy  bright-eyed  girls, 
Of  fairy  forms  and  elfin  curls, 

And  smiles  like  Hermon's  dew  : 
They've  hearts  like  those  they're  born  to 
wed, 

Too  proud  to  nurse  a  slave ; 
They'd  scorn  to  share  a  monarch's  bed, 
And  sooner  lay  their  angel  head 

Deep  in  their  humble  grave. 

And  I  have  left  thee,  Home,  alone, 

A  pilgrim  from  thy  shore  ; 
The  wind  goes  by  with  hollow  moan, 
I  hear  it  sigh  a  warning  tone, 

"  Ye  see  your  home  no  more." 
I'm  cast  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 

Torn  like  an  ocean  weed ; 
I'm  cast  away,  far,  far  from  thee, 
I  feel  a  thing  I  cannot  be, 

A  bruised  and  broken  reed. 

Farewell,  my  Native  Land,  farewell ! 

That  wave  has  hid  thee  now — 
My  heart  is  bowed  as  with  a  spell. 
This  rending  pang  ! — would  I  could  tell 

What  ails  my  throbbing  brow  ! 
One  look  upon  that  fading  streak 

Which  bounds  yon  eastern  sky ; 
One  tear  to  cool  my  burning  cheek ; 
And  then  a  word  I  cannot  speak — 

"  My  Native  Land — Good-by." 


HUGH    PETERS. 


[1830-40. 


THE  PARTING. 

THEIR  bark  is  out  upon  the  sea, 

She  leaps  across  the  tide  : — 
The  flashing  waves  dash  joyously 

Their  spray  upon  her  side  : 
As  if  a  bird,  before  the  breeze 

She  spreads  her  snowy  wings, 
And  breaking  through  the  crested  seas, 

How  beautiful  she  springs. 

The  deep  blue  sky  above  her  path 

Is  cloudless,  and  the  air 
That  pure  and  spicy  fragrance  hath 

Which  Ceylon's  breezes  bear — 
And  though  she  seems  a  shadowless 

And  phantom  thing,  in  sport, 
Her  freight  I  ween  is  happiness, 

And  heaven  her  far-off  port. 

Mild,  tearful  eyes  are  gazing  now 

Upon  that  fleeting  ship, 
And  here,  perhaps,  an  ashy  brow, 

And  there  a  trembling  lip, 
Are  tokens  of  the  agony, 

The  pangs  it  costs  to  sever 
A  mother  from  her  first-born  child, 

To  say — farewell,  forever. 

And  they  who  sail  yon  fading  bark 

Have  turned  a  yearning  eye 
To  the  far  land,  which  seems  a  line 

Between  the  sea  and  sky. 
And  as  that  land  blends  with  the  sea, 

Like  clouds  in  sunset  light, 
A  soft,  low  voice  breathes  on  the  wind, 

"  My  native  land,  good-night." 

And  they  who  stand  upon  the  shore, 

And  bend  them  o'er  the  sea, 
To  catch  the  last,  faint  shadow  of 

The  shrouds'  dim  tracery, — 
I  ween  if  one  could  hear  the  sigh, 

Could  catch  the  mother's  tone, 
He'd  hear  it  say,  "  Good-night — good 
night, 

My  beautiful — my  own." 


That  ship  is  gone — lost  to  the  eye ; 

But  still  a  freshening  breeze 
Is  o'er  her  wake,  and  drives  her  on     . 

Through  smooth  and  pleasant  seas. 
Right  onward,  thus,  she  will  dash  on, 

Though  tempests  shake  the  air, 
For  hearts  that  fear  not  ocean's  wrath 

I  ween  will  aye  be  there. 
***** 

That  sea  is  life.     That  bark  is  but 

The  hopes  of  wedded  love  : 
The  wind  which  fills  its  swelling  sails 

I  trust  is  from  above. 
And  ever  may  its  progress  be 

Through  summer  seas  right  on, 
Till  blended  with  eternity's 

Broad  ocean's  horizon. 


THE  YANKEE  PEDDLER. 

THERE  is,  in  famous  Yankee  land, 

A  class  of  men,  ycleped  tin-peddlers, 
A  shrewd,  sarcastic  band 

Of  busy  meddlers : 
They    scour    the    country    through    and 

through, 

Vending  their  wares,  tin  pots,  tin  pans, 
Tin  ovens,  dippers,  wash-bowls,  cans, 
Tin  whistles,  kettles,  or  to  boil  or  stew ; 
Tin  cullenders,  tin  nutmeg-graters, 
Tin  warming  platters    for  your  fish  and 
taters ! 

In  short, 
If  you  will  look  within 

His  cart, 

And  gaze  upon  the  tin 
Which  glitters  there, 
So  bright  and  fair, 
There's  no  danger  in  defying 
You  to  go  off  without  buying. 


SALMON  P.  CHASE. 


SALMON  PORTLAND  CHASE  was  born  in  the  town  of  Cornish,  New  Hampshire, 
on  the  thirteenth  day  of  January,  in  the  year  1808.  At  the  age  of  seven  years,  on 
the  removal  of  his  father  to  Keene,  he  was  taken  to  that  town  arid  placed  at  school. 
At  the  age  of  twelve,  his  lather  having  in  the  mean  time  died,  IK;  .-ought  the  home  of 
his  uncle,  Philander  Chase,  then  Bishop  of  Ohio,  at  Worthington,  in  this  State,  and 
under  that  excellent  and  active  man  pursued  his  studies  for  some  time.  Bishop  C'i 
having  been  elected  to  the  Presidency  of  Cincinnati  College,  removed  to  that  city  for 
the  purpose  of  entering  upon  the  discharge  of  the  responsible  duties  thu-  devolved 
upon  him,  taking  his  nephew  with  him.  Salmon  entered  the  college  forthwith,  arid 
was  soon  raised  to  the  Sophomore  class.  He  continued  at  Cincinnati  only  about  a 
year,  when  he  returned  to  the  home  of  his  mother  in  New  Hampshire,  and  in  1824 
entered  the  Junior  class  of  Dartmouth  College,  where  he  was  graduated  two  years 
after. 

These  several  changes  were  not  the  most  favorable  to  Mr.  Chase's  education,  but 
he  improved  his  opportunities  well,  and  graduated  with  honor.  The  world  was  now 
before  him  where  to  choose,  arid  he  was  to  be  the  artificer  of  his  own  fortunes.  The 
winter  succeeding,  he  went  to  Washington  City,  and,  receiving  good  encouragement, 
opened  a  classical  school  for  boys.  This  school  was  prosperous,  and  he  continued  it 
for  about  three  years,  pursuing,  at  the  same  time,  a  thorough  study  of  the  law,  under 
the  direction  of  the  distinguished  William  Wirt.  Having  been  admitted  to  the  bar  of 
the  District  of  Columbia,  and  closed  his  school  in  1829,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati  in 
the  spring  of  1830,  and  took  up  his  permanent  residence  in  that  city — engaging  in 
the  practice  of  his  profession. 

Working  in  that  probation  through  which  many  sleep,  Mr.  Chase  soon  made  him 
self  known  as  an  earnest  thinker,  a  good  writer,  and  a  forcible  speaker.  He  was  an 
accepted  contributor  to  the  pages  of  the  North  American  Review,  an  occa.-ional  writei  j 
for  the  Western  Monthly  Magazine,  and  a  favorite  member  of  the  intellectual  associa 
tions  and  social  circles  of  the  city.  Among  his  contributions  to  the  former  periodical, 
which  was  at  the  time  regarded  as  the  model  American  work  in  its  department,  an 
elaborate  article  on  "Brougham,"  and  a  dissertation  on  u  Machinery,"  are  remembered 
as  having  been  received  by  the  newspaper  press  and  the  literary  public  with  great  j 
favor.  At  this  time  he  prepared  an  edition  of  the  Statutes  of  Ohio,  with  copious 
annotations  and  a  preliminary  sketch  of  the  history  of  the  State,  in  three  large  octavo 
volumes.  The  manner  in  which  this  work  was  performed  gave  him  an  immediate 
reputation  among  the  members  of  the  bar,  and  secured  him  almost  at  once  a  mo-t 
desirable  position  in  the  active  commercial  community  by  which  he  was  surrounded. 
A  valuable  practice  soon  sought  him  out;  in  1834  he  became  solicitor  of  the  Bank 

(  107) 


168  SALMON    P.    CHASE.  [1830-40. 

of  the  United  States  in  Cincinnati,  and  not  long  after  that  assumed  a  like  position  in 
one  of  the  city  banks. 

The  first  important  case  that  brought  him  distinctly  and  prominently  before  the 
public,  outside  of  commercial  practice,  occurred  in  the  year  1837.  This  was  a  "fugi 
tive  slave  case,"  in  which  Mr.  Chase  acted  as  counsel  for  a  colored  woman,  claimed 
under  the  law  of  1793.  The  same  year,  in  an  argument  before  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Ohio,  in  defense  of  James  G.  Birney,  prosecuted  under  a  State  law  for 
harboring  a  negro  slave,  Mr.  Chase  so  acquitted  himself  as  to  add  materially  to  his 
already  honorable  reputation,  and  inspire  general  confidence  in  his  learning,  skill, 
readiness,  and  power  as  a  jurist.  His  status  at  the  bar  was  now  an  undoubted  one. 
He  took  rank  with  the  oldest  and  ablest  practitioners.  But  the  very  zeal  with  which 
he  entered  into  the  cases  referred  to,  and  others  of  a  kindred  nature — the  thorough 
ness  of  his  preparation,  and  the  ability  of  his  argument — while  they  fixed  his  reputa 
tion  as  a  lawyer,  and  rapidly  increased  the  business  committed  to  his  charge,  at  the 
same  time  tended  to  draw  him  aside  from  the  legitimate  and  most  successful  practice 
of  his  profession,  and  start  him  in  a  new  and  untried  career. 

The  extension  of  the  anti-slavery  sentiment,  and  his  prominent  connection  with  a 
class  of  cases  so  nearly  allied  to  it,  together  with  the  fact  that  this  sentiment  wTas  fast 
receiving  vitality  in  organized  forms,  gradually  drew  him  into  politics.  Previous  to 
the  year,  1841,  though  ranking  with  the  young  Whigs  of  Cincinnati,  and  acting  with 
them,  he  had  never  taken  any  thing  like  a  prominent  part  in  their  movements.  During 
this  year,  his  anti-slavery  sentiments  having  been  strengthened  by  observation  and 
reflection,  and  it  appearing  certain  to  him  that  legitimate  aims  which  he  regarded  as 
of  paramount  importance  could  hope  to  be  attained  only  through  the  instrumentality 
of  party  organization,  he  united  in  a  call  for  the  State  Liberty  Convention  of  Ohio, 
and  subsequently  for  the  National  Liberty  Convention  of  1843,  in  the  proceedings  of 
both  of  which  he  took  a  part  whose  prominence  was  surpassed  by  that  of  no  other  man. 

Mr.  Chase's  political  career  was  now  fully  commenced,  and  has  been  continued  with 
activity  and  ability  ever  since.  He  was  chosen  a  Senator  of  the  United  States  from 
Ohio  in  the  year.  1849,  and  served  his  full  term  with  much  distinction.  In  185"5  he 
was  elected  Governor  of  Ohio,  and  in  1857  re-elected — administering  affairs  with 
great  ability  and  prudence,  and  by  his  wisdom  and  devotion  to  the  interests  of  the 
Suite,  commanding  respect  at  home  and  abroad.  In  the  beginning  of  1860  he  was 
again  elected  to  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  in  which  august  body  he  will  be 
entitled  to  take  his  seat  on  the  fourth  of  March,  1861. 

Judging  Mr.  Chase's  future  by  his  past,  that  section  of  the  Union  to  which  he  more 
particularly  belongs,  will  have  cause  to  congratulate  itself  upon  his  re-election  to  the 
Senate,  should  it  be  in  the  order  of  events  that  he  is  there  to  take  the  oath  of  office. 
Throughout  the  Senatorial  service  which  he  has  already  rendered,  the  most  abundant 
evidence  was  afforded  of  his  attachment  to  the  great  and  free  North-West,  whose 
interests  he  watched  over  with  the  most  jealous  care.  No  narrow  feelings  of  section 
alism,  however,  control  his  actions ;  and  when  his  responsibilities  as  Sehator  are  re 
newed,  his  vision,  we  are  satisfied,  will  have  a  broad  national  scope. 


1WU-40.]  SALMON    P.    CHASE.  169 

While  a  student  of  law,  and  during  the  first  years  of  his  practice  at  the  bar,  history, 
biography,  mechanics,  politics  and  general  literature,  each  received  a  due  share  of  Mr. 
Chase's  attention.  And  during  the  period  embraced  within  the  first  three  or  four 
years  after  attaining  to  his  majority,  few  men  of  his  years  in  the  country  had  better 
stored  minds,  or  exhibited  more  striking  marks  of  good  mental  discipline.  Though 
his  education  had  been  several  times  interrupted,  and  was  at  best,  more  or  less,  piece 
meal  in  its  nature,  yet,  through  a  mind  comprehensive,  discriminating,  and  sufficiently 
retentive,  he  brought  to  whatever  task  he  undertook  the  graces  of  learning  and  the  force 
of  logic,  and  when  he  left  it,  whether  complete  or  incomplete,  the  evidences  were 
abundant  of  keenness  of  insight,  extent  of  view,  thoroughness  of  reflection,  and 
strength  of  reasoning.  The  same  breadth  of  premise,  exactness  of  statement,  logical 
sequence,  completeness  of  consideration,  and  power  of  conclusion,  that  have  since,  in 
a  more  remarkable  degree,  characterized  his  career  as  a  jurist  and  a  statesman,  marked 
all  his  better  efforts  during  the  period  under  view.  In  public  discourses,  newspaper 
writings,  occasional  lectures,  and  contributions  to  periodical  literature — in  each  of 
which  departments  he  did  a  few  things  carefully,  and  not  many  things  "hastily  and 
with  a  bad  pen" — these  traits  are  observable. 

During  his  student-life,  Mr.  Chase  often  wooed  the  muses  successfully;  and  from 
among  the  poems  written  by  him  at  this  period,  we  make  some  extracts.  Later  in  life, 
as  a  recreation,  and  from  early  love,  he  has  indulged  in  similar  pastimes  ;  and  amid  the 
turbulence  of  politics,  he  often  now  flies  for  peaceful  enjoyment  to  the  quiet  of  a 
library  stored  with  the  master  songs  of  the  world,  ancient  and  modern.  Among 
recent  literary  recreations,  in  which  we  have  known  him  to  engage,  is  the  translation  of 
various  specimens  of  the  Latin  poets  into  an  English  form,  which  present  with  strik 
ing  excellence  the  wit  and  beauty  of  the  original.  Though  our  plan  does  not  include 
such  performances  among  the  selections  for  this  volume,  yet  there  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  embrace  in  these  preliminary  sketches  an  occasional  translation, 
such  as  that  of  the  eleventh  Epigram  of  the  Sixth  Book  of  Martial,  with  which  we 
conclude  this  notice. 

"IN  MARCDM." 

"No  real  friendships  now-a-days,"  you  say  : 
"Pylades  and  Orestes,  where  are  they?'' 
Alike  Pylades  and  Orestes  fared  ; 
The  bread  and  thrush  of  each  the  other  shared  ; 
Both  drank  from  the  same  bottle  ;  both  partook 
The  self-same  supper  from  the  self-same  cook. 
You  feast  on  Lucrines  ;  me  Peloris  feeds  ; 
In  daintiness  your  taste  not  mine  exceeds. 
Cadmean  Tyre  clothes  you  ;  coarse  Gallia  me  ; 
How  loved  by  sackcloth  can  rich  purples  be  ? 
Who  wants  in  me  Pylades,  Mark !  must  prove 
To  me  Orestes  : — who  wants  love,  must  love. 

NOTE. — Lucrines,'  the  finest  oysters  were  taken  from  the  Lucrine  Lake.  Peloris;  a  Sicilian  promontory  near 
which  shell-fish  of*  inferior  quality  but  large  size  were  taken.  Cadmean  Tyre;  Tyre,  named  from  Cadmus  a  Phoeni 
cian,  celebrated  for  purples.  Gallia;  whence  were  brought  coarse  woolen  cloth  for  servants'  wear,  by  a  permissible 
license,  perhaps,  called  sackcloth. 


170 


SALMON    P.   CHASE. 


[1830-40. 


THE  SISTERS.* 

IT  was  an  eve  of  summer.    The  bright  sun 
With  all  his  flood  of  glory,  like  a  king 
With  pomp  of  unfurled  banners,  had  gone 

down. 

A  single  cloud,  in  which  all  rays  that  light 
The  diamond,  opal,  and  the  chrysolite, 
Met  in  their  mingled  brightness,  hung  above 
The  place  of  his  departure.  Over  that 
Rose  pile  on  pile  of  gorgeous  clouds,  a  wall 
With  tower  and  battlement,  uplifted  high, — 
Grandly  magnificent,  as  if  to  mock 
The  show  of  glory  earth  sometimes  puts  on. 
The  zephyrs  were  abroad  among  the  flowers, 
Filling  the  air  with  fragrance,  while  around, 
From  >ilver  rills,  and  from  the  breezy  trees, 
And  from  earth's  thousand  founts  of  har 
mony, 
Came  gushes  of  sweet  sound.  On  such  an 

eve, 

I  saw,  upon  the  bank  of  a  small  stream, 
Whose  waters  glowed  with  the  rich,  golden 

light, 

That,  like  a  mantle  wrought  by  angel  hands, 
Covered  the  world  with  beauty,  two,  who 

seemed 

Rather  the  habitants  of  some  pure  star. 
Than  dwellers  of  this  earth.     They  were 

both  young 
And   lovely,  but  unlike ;    as    two    sweet 

flowers 

Are  sometimes  seen,  both  exquisitely  fair, 
Though  clothed  with  different  hues.     The 

one  went  by 
With  a  lijrht,  fawn-like  step,  that  scarcely 

crushed 
The  springing  flower  beneath  it.     Life  had 

beeo 
To  her  a   poet's   dream,  where  all  things 

brighl 

And  beautiful  concentered,  like  the  rays 
That,  mingling,  form  the  sunbeam  ;  and  the 

earth 


.Inscribed  to  E.  G.  W.  and  ('.  (i.  W. 


Was  lovely  still,  as  in  the  olden  time, 
When,  at  this  hour,  celestial  spirits  came 
To  admire  her  virgin  beauties,  and  adore 
The  great  Creator,  manifested  best 
By  works  which  he  hath  wrought.     Her 

countenance 

Was  radiant  with  joy,  though  shaded  oft 
By  her  dark  tresses,  as  the  wanton  breeze 
Played  sportively  among  her  locks  of  jet. 
She  was  not  very  beautiful ;  and  yet 
There  was  that  in  her  dark,  bright,  joyous 

eyes, 

And  in  the  expression  of  her  speaking  face, 
Where,   'mid  the  graces,  dwelt  perpetual 

smiles, 

As  sunshine  dwells  upon  the  summer  wave, 
Changing  forever,  yet  forever  bright — 
With    the    sweet   frankness   of    confidin^ 

O 

youth, 

And  the  pure  light  that  evermore  pours  out 
From  the  mind's  fountain — that  demanded 

more 
Than  the  cold  name  of  beauty,  which  may 

be 

The  attribute  of  beings  whom  no  ray 
Of  intellect  illumines,  and  no  charm 
Of  loveliness  invests.     The  other's  step 
Was  not  so  buoyant,  and  her  eye  had  less 
Of  mirth  and  gladness  in  it,  and  her  cheek 
Was   something  paler ;    but  when    gentle 

airs 

Parted  the  tresses  that  hung  o'er  her  brow, 
It  was  as  when  light  suddenly  breaks  forth 
From  rifted  clouds  in  April.     She  was  one 
For  whom  a  life  were  a  small  sacrifice, 
Aye,  to  be  deemed  as  nothing !     Pensive 

grace 

Was  in  her  every  motion,  and  her  look 
Had  something  sacred  in  it  that  declared 
How  pure  the  spirit  in  that  form  enshrined, 
Like   light  that  dwelleth  in  the  diamond 

gem. 

Thou  lovely  one  !  may  life  still  be  for  thee 
A  peaceful  voyage  o'er  a  summer  sea, 
By  gentle  gales  (attended  ;  and  at  length, 
Purified  wholly  from  the  primal  taint, 


18^0-40.] 


SALMON    P  .    C  II  A  S  K  . 


171 


That  still  attends  earth's  loveliest,  enter 
thou 

The  port  of  peace  eternal ! 

They  passed  on — 

Such  visions  never  last — and,  ray  by  ray, 

From  earth  and  sky  and  from  the  spark 
ling  wave 

The  glory  all  departed.     Even  so, 

I  thought — and  with  the  thought  a  heavy 
sigh 

Came   from  my  inmost  heart — must  fade 
away 

All  that  the  earth  of  beautiful  inherits. 

And  so  must  these  bright  creatures  pass 
from  earth, 

Leaving  behind,  to  tell  that  they  have  been, 

Naught  but  the  memory  of  their  loveliness, 

Like  fragrance  lingering  still  around  the 
spot 

Where  late  the  rose  was  blooming. 


TO  A  STAR. 

MOURNFUL  thy  beam,  pale  star ! 

Shining  afar  with  solitary  light, 
Though  hosts  around  thee  are, 

Decking  the  bosom  of  the  blue  midnight. 

I  would  not  be  as  thou ! 

Cut  off  from  all  communion  with  my 

kind, 
Though  round  me  might  blaze  now 

The  light  and  glory  in  which   thou  art 
shrin'd. 

For  thou  art  all  alone  ! 

Companionless  in  thine  afar  career — 
While  silently  rolls  on, 

In   paths  of   living  light,  each  radiant 
sphere. 

Thy  goings  forth  have  been, 

In  thy  bright  beauty,  since  that  elder 
time, 


When,  undefiled  by  sin, 

Earth  too  was  lovely  in  her  being's  prime. 

And  still  thou  art  the  same ! 

As  beautiful  and  fair  as  then  thou  wert ; 
As  if  thy  virgin  flame 

Had  power  Time's  wasting  influence  to 
avert. 

Shine  on  awhile,  thou  star ! 

Yet  shall  thy  brightness  fade  in  endless 

night ; 
Roll  on  thy  diamond  car ! 

Yet  soon  thy  fiery  track  will  not  be 
bright. 

Then  shall  a  star  arise  ! 

A  star  far  lovelier  than  night's  brightest 

gem, 
To  shine  in  purer  skies, — 

The  fadeless,  glorious  star  of  Bethlehem ! 


THEMES. 

LIGHTLY  that  feather  floats  upon  the  wind ! 
Yet  in  the  eternal  balance  mightiest  deeds 
Of  mightiest  men  are  lighter  ! 


Yes :  Plutus  is  the  god  of  little  souls, 
Who.  in  his  dark  caves  searching,  may  em 
ploy 
Eyes  which  the  sun  had  blinded ! 

How  oft  does  seeming  worth,  that  thorn- 
less  rose, 

Shoot  out,  when  by  Affection  nurtured, 

The  rough  thorns  of  Ingratitude,  and 
wound 

The  gentle  hand  that  tends  it. 


How  shifts  the  varying  scene !    The  great, 

to-day, 

Are  by  the  turn  of  fickle  Fortune's  wheel 
To-morrow  mingled  with  the  general  mass. 


WILLIAM   O.  BUTLER. 


WILLIAM  ORLANDO  BUTLER,  son  of  Percival  Butler,  who  was  an  Adjutant 
General  in  the  American  Army  in  the  War  of  1812,  was  born  in  Jessamine  county, 
Kentucky,  in  1793.  The  profession  of  law  was  selected  for  William  by  his  father, 
and  he  was  about  to  devote  himself  to  it,  when  the  war  of  1812  broke  out.  He  en 
listed  as  a  private  soldier  in  Captain  Hart's  company  of  Kentucky  volunteers,  and 
on  the  march  to  the  North-western  frontier  was  elected  Corporal.  Soon  after  that 
election  he  was  appointed  Ensign  in  the  Seventeenth  Regiment  of  United  States  In 
fantry.  He  distinguished  himself  in  several  skirmishes.  At  the  battle  of  River 
Raisin,  January  twenty-second,  1813,  he  was  among  the  few  wounded  who  escaped 
massacre  by  the  Indians.  Taken  prisoner  by  the  British,  he  was  marched  through 
Canada  to  Fort  Niagara.  In  a  biographical  notice  of  Mr.  Butler,  Francis  P.  Blair 
has  given  some  account  of  his  life  as  a  prisoner  of  war,  from  which  we  quote : 

Then  his  mind  wandered  back  to  the  last  night  scene  which  he  surveyed  on  the  bloody  shores  of 
Raisin.  He  gave  up  the  heroic  part,  and  became  a  school-boy  again,  and  commemorated  his  sor 
rows  for  his  lost  friends  in  verse,  like  some  passionate,  heart-broken  lover.  These  elegiac  strains 
were  never  intended  for  the  eye  of  any  but  mutual  friends,  whose  sympathies,  like  his  own,  poured 
out  tears  with  their  plaints  over  the  dead.  We  give  some  of  these  lines  of  boyhood  to  show  that 
the  heroic  youth  had  a  bosom  not  less  kind  than  brave.  They  are  introductory  to  what  may  be  con 
sidered  a  succession  of  epitaphs  on  the  friends  whose  bodies  the  young  soldier  found  on  the  field  : 


THE  FIELD  OF  EAISIN. 


The  battle's  o'er !  the  din  is  past ; 
Night's  mantle  on  the  field  is  cast ; 
The  Indian  yell  is  heard  no  more  ; 
The  silence  broods  o'er  Erie's  shore. 
At  this  lone  hour  I  go  to  tread 
The  field  where  valor  vainly  bled— 
To  raise  the  wounded  warrior's  crest, 
Or  warm  with  tears  his  icy  breast, 
To  treasure  up  his  last  command, 
And  bear  it  to  his  native  land. 
It  may  one  pulse  of  joy  impart 
To  a  fond  mother's  bleeding  heart ; 
Or  for  a  moment  it  may  dry 
The  tear-drop  in  the  widow's  eye. 


Vain  hope,  away  !     The  widow  ne'er 
Her  warrior's  dying  wish  shall  hear. 
The  passing  zephyr  bears  no  sigh, 
No  wounded  warrior  meets  the  eye — 
Death  is  his  sleep  by  Erie's  wave, 
Of  Raisin's  snow  we  heap  his  grave  ! 
How  many  hopes  lie  murdered  here — 

The  mother's  joy,  the  father's  pride, 
The  country's  boast,  the  foeman's  fear, 

In  wilder'd  havoc,  side  by  side. 
Lend  me,  thou  silent  queen  of  night, 
Lend  me  awhile  thy  waning  light, 
That  I  may  see  each  well-loved  form, 
That  sunk  beneath  the  morning  storm. 


Immediately  after  an  exchange  of  prisoners  had  been  made,  by  which  Mr.  Butler 
was  permitted  to  return  from  Canada,  he  was  promoted  to  a  Captaincy.  On  the 
twenty-third  of  December,  1814,  he  was  brevetted  Major  for  conspicuous  services  in 
the  battles  at  Pensacola  and  New  Orleans.  He  was  aid-de-camp  to  General  Jack 
son,  from  June  seventeenth,  1816,  to  May  thirty-first,  1817.  He  then  tendered  his 
resignation,  and  for  the  next  twenty-five  years  devoted  himself  to  the  practice  of 
the  law  in  Kentucky,  residing  on  a  patrimonial  estate,  near  the  confluence  of  the 
Kentucky  and  Ohio  rivers. 

From  1839  to  1843,  Mr.  Butler  was  a  Representative  in  Congress.  In  1844  he 

(  172  ) 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    0.    BUTLER. 


was  the  candidate  of  the  Democratic  party  for  the  office  of  Governor  of  Kentucky, 
but  was  defeated  by  the  influence  of  Henry  Clay.  When  the  war  with  Mexico 
broke  out,  he  tendered  his  services  to  the  Government,  and  was  created  Major  Gen 
eral.  He  led  the  daring  charge  at  Monterey,  and  on  the  second  of  March,  1847,  was 
presented  a  sword  by  resolution  of  Congress.  In  February,  1848,  he  succeeded 
General  Scott  in  command  of  the  American  forces  in  Mexico.  His  military  admin 
istration  in  that  country  was  concluded  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  May,  1848,  when  he 
announced  the  ratification  of  the  treaty  of  peace.  After  his  return  to  the  United 
States,  he  was  nominated  by  the  Democratic  party  as  a  candidate  for  the  office  of 
Vice  President,  on  a  ticket,  with  Lewis  Cass  for  the  Chief  Magistracy,  which  was 
defeated  by  the  election  of  Zachary  Taylor  and  Millard  Fillmore. 

In  early  life  Mr.  Butler  wrote  several  poems  of  merit,  but  the  only  one  generally 
known  is  the  "  Boatman's  Horn,"  first  published  about  the  year  1835. 


THE  BOATMAN'S  HORN. 

0,  BOATMAN  !  wind  that  horn  again, 

For  never  did  the  list'ning  air 

Upon  its  lambent  bosom  bear 
So  wild,  so  soft,  so  sweet  a  strain ! 
What  though  thy  notes  are  sad  and  few, 

By  every  simple  boatman  blown, 
Yet  is  each  pulse  to  nature  true, 

And  melody  in  every  tone. 
How  oft,  in  boyhood's  joyous  day, 

Unmindful  of  the  lapsing  hours, 
I've  loitered  on  my  homeward  way 

By  wild  Ohio's  bank  of  flowers ; 
While  some  lone  boatman  from  the  deck 

Poured  his  soft  numbers  to  that  tide, 
As  if  to  charm  from  storm  and  wreck 

The  boat  where  all  his  fortunes  ride ! 
Delighted  Nature  drank  the  sound, 
Enchanted,  Echo  bore  it  round 
In  whispers  soft  and  softer  still, 
From  hill  to  plain  and  plain  to  hill, 
Till  e'en  the  thoughtless  frolic  boy, 
Elate  with  hope  and  wild  with  joy, 
Who  gamboled  by  the  river's  side, 
And  sported  with  the  fretting  tide, 
Feels  something  new  pervade  his  breast, 
Change  his  light  steps,  repress  his  jest, 


Bends  o'er  the  flood  his  eager  ear 

To  catch  the  sounds  far  off,  yet  dear — 

Drinks  the  sweet  draught,  but  knows  not 

why 

The  tear  of  rapture  fills  his  eye. 
And  can  he  now,  to  manhood  grown, 
Tell  why  those  notes,  simple  and  lone, 
As  on  the  ravished  ear  they  fell, 
Bind  every  sense  in  magic  spell  ? 
There  is  a  tide  of  feeling  given 
To  all  on  earth,  its  fountain  heaven, 
Beginning  with  the  dewy  flower, 
Just  ope'd  in  Flora's  vernal  bower — 
Rising  creation's  orders  through. 
With  louder  murmur,  brighter  hue — 
That  tide  is  sympathy  !  its  ebb  and  flow 
Give  life  its  hues,  its  joy  and  woe. 
Music,  the  master-spirit  that  can  move 
Its  waves  to  war,  or  lull  them  into  love — 
Can  cheer  the  sinking  sailor  mid  the  wave, 
And  bid  the  warrior  on  !  nor  fear  the  grave, 
Inspire  the  fainting  pilgrim  on  his  road, 
And  elevate  his  soul  to  claim  his  God. 
Then,  boatman,  wind  that  horn  again  ! 
Though  much  of  sorrow  mark  its  strain, 
Yet  are  its  notes  to  sorrow  dear ; 
What  though  they  wake  fond  memory's  tear ! 
Tears  are  sad  memory's  sacred  feast, 
And  rapture  oft  her  chosen  guest. 


THOMAS    H.  SHREVE. 


PULMONARY  disease,  which  for  a  period  of  about  three  years  had  afflicted  Thomas 
H.  Shreve,  terminated  in  his  death  on  the  morning  of  December  twenty-third, 
1853.  To  Mr.  Shreve's  numerous  personal  friends,  who  had  long  been  aware  of  the 
severe  and  dangerous  nature  of  his  disease,  this  intelligence  did  not  come  unex 
pectedly,  but  to  every  one  of  them  it  was  accompanied  by  a  pang  such  as  they  do  not 
often  experience.  Beyond  the  circle  of  attached  friends,  there  were  in  different  parts 
of  the  Union,  but  more  especially  in  the  north-eastern  sections  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley,  thousands  who  had  never  seen  the  deceased,  who  yet  sincerely  lamented  his 
loss,  for  through  a  period  of  twenty  years  they  had  known  him  as  a  journalist  of 
brilliant  talent,  and  rare  powers  of  pleasing  and  instructing. 

Thomas  H.  Shreve  was  born  in  the  city  of  Alexandria,  District  of  Columbia,  in 
the  year  1808.  In  the  schools  of  that  place  he  laid  the  foundations  of  a  good 
academical  education,  upon  which  he  built  through  many  years  of  close  observation 
and  thoughtful  study.  There,  and  at  Trenton,  New  Jersey,  he  was  bred  to  the  busi 
ness  of  merchandise,  which  at  a  later  period  of  his  life  he  pursued  for  a  few  years  in 
Louisville,  Kentucky.  About  the  year  1830,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati,  whither  his 
father  and  sisters  had  preceded  him.  In  the  year  1834,  by  purchase,  he  connected 
himself  with  the  publishing  and  editorial  departments  of  the  Cincinnati  Mirror — a 
weekly  literary  paper,  at  that  time  of  established  character  and  wide  circulation, 
but  which  immediately  and  greatly  improved,  in  all  respects,  under  his  joint  man 
agement. 

In  the  year  1838,  the  Mirror  having  sometime  before  passed  from  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Shreve  and  his  associates,  he  removed  to  Louisville,  where  he  became  a  member 
of  the  extensive  dry-goods  jobbing  house  of  Joshua  L.  Bowles  &  Co.,  with  which  he 
remained  connected  till  the  retirement  of  Mr.  Bowles  and  the  close  of  the  concern. 
Subsequent  to  this,  he  was  for  a  couple  of  years  one  of  the  partners  in  an  agricultural 
warehouse  in  Louisville. 

"While  connected  with  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  and  while  a  member  of  the  firm  of 
Bowles  &  Co.,  Mr.  Shreve  produced  many  papers  of  rare  excellence,  in  different  de 
partments  of  literature.  They  were"  published  in  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  the  Knick 
erbocker  of  New  York,  the  Hesperian,  the  Western  Monthly  Magazine,  and  the  Louis 
ville  Journal,  and  copied  into  the  daily  and  weekly  press  throughout  the  country, 
establishing  his  reputation  as  one  of  the  best  of  our  younger  writers,  East  or  West. 
During  the  same  time  he  made  sundry  public  addresses,  on  themes  of  permanent 
interest  and  value,  which  showed  an  abundant  capacity  and  intelligence  to  instruct, 
as  well  as  to  please. 

Discriminating  judgment  had  long  recognized  in  him  one  who  had  rare  powers  for 
the  work  of  journalism,  and  when  he  retired  from  merchandising,  he  was  at  once  se- 

(  174  ) 


] 8:50-40.]  THOMAS    II .    SHREVE.  175 

cured  by  the  publishers  of  the  Louisville  Journal  as  an  assistant  in  the  editorial 
department  of  that  paper.  In  this  employment  he  continued  till  the  day  of  his  death 
— dictating  to  an  amanuensis  months  after  the  inroads  of  disease  had  so  shattered  his 
physical  constitution  that  he  could  no  longer  guide  the  pen  that  traced  his  quickly- 
flowing  thoughts.  For  the  rough-and-tumble  of  political  editorship  he  had  but  little 
taste,  and  he  labored  in  that  department  of  the  paper  only  temporarily  during  the 
occasional  absence  of  his  able  and  dextrous  senior.  He  liked  as  little  the  drudgery 
of  clipping  and  paragraphing — to  which  he  was  subjected  only  at  times  of  similar 
necessity.  He  was,  more  especially  than  any  thing  else,  an  essayist,  and  to  the  well- 
weighed  thoughts  and  polished  style  of  the  "  leaders  "  which  he  furnished  every  week, 
and  sometimes  every  day,  was  the  Louisville  Journal  indebted  for  much  of  the  high 
respect  entertained  for  it  among  thoughtful  and  scholarly  minds.* 

Some  of  Mr.  Shreve's  poetical  compositions  have  been  widely  and  justly  admired. 
Unlike  most  young  men,  when  they  engage  in  metrical  writing,  he  was  as  joyous  in 
his  verse  as  the  lark  soaring  in  the  early  morn  and  singing  at  heaven's  gate.  As  an 
amateur  artist  also  he  had  decided  and  high  excellences,  and  he  left  portraits,  land 
scapes,  and  paintings  in  animal  life,  which  demonstrate  his  powrers  in  this  department 
of  intellectual  effort.  He  had  likewise  a  mathematical  and  legal  mind ;  and  had  he 
given  his  days  and  nights  as  sedulously  to  either  astronomy  or  law  as  he  gave  them 
to  belles-lettres  and  the  social  circle,  he  would  have  ranked  with  the  best  of  his 
cotemporaries.  His  ambition,  however,  was  almost  exclusively  literary,  and  the 
theater  of  perhaps  his  best  exploits  was  the  club-room,  where  he  had  few  equals  in 
the  cities  of  his  residence. 

No  man  had  stronger  attachments  to  his  friends  than  Thomas  H.  Shreve,  and  no 
man's  friends  have  been  more  devoted  than  his  to  the  object  of  their  regard.  This 
was  the  double  result  of  his  truthful  and  manly  nature,  which  presented  him  at  all 

*  Ou  the  morning  after  his  death,  a  touching  article  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Prentice  appeared  in  the  Journal — from 
which  the  following  is  an  extract : 

•'  Mr.  Shreve's  abilities  were  of  a  high  order.  As  a  writer,  he  was  much  distinguished  before  his  connection  with 
the  Louisi-ille  Journal,  and  his  pen  contributed  much  valuable  matter  to  this  paper.  His  taste  was  pure,  his  humor 
was  rich  and  exuberant,  and  he  could,  when  he  pleased,  write  with  extraordinary  vehemence,  eloquence,  and  pathos. 
His  mind  was  richly  stored  with  knowledge,  and  he  could  always  use  that  knowledge  with  wonderful  facility.  The 
condition  of  his  health  was  such  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  that  he  wrote  very  little  during  that  time,  but  he  has 
left  behind  him  some  productions  which  we  trust  that  our  generation  will  not  permit  to  be  forgotten. 

"  To-morrow  the  lamented  Shreve  will  be  laid  in  his  grave  amid  the  tears  and  sobs  and  lamentations  of  relatives 
and  friends,  but  his  memory,  unburied  in  the  earth,  will  remain  a  cherished  and  beautiful  and  holy  thing  in  the 
souls  of  hundreds.  When  such  a  man  passes  away,  he  leaves  the  earth  lone  and  desolate  to  those  who  knew  and 
loved  him,  but  heaven  becomes  brighter  to  them  than  before.  A  dark  and  chilling  shadow  stretches  from  his  tomb, 
and  seems  to  envelop  the  heart  and  the  whole  world  of  nature  with  its  cold  gloom,  but  when  the  eye  of  the 
spirit  looks  upward  and  pursues  him  in  his  radiant  and  starry  flight,  the  gloom  vanishes,  and  all  is  eternal  beauty 
and  glory. 

"  We,  the  surviving  editor  of  the  Journal,  feel  that  the  prime  of  our  life  is  scarcely  yet  gone  ;  yet,  as  we  look  back 
u]  on  our  long  career  in  this  city,  we  seem  to  behold,  near  and  far,  only  the  graves  of  the  prized  and  the  lost.  All  the 
numerous  journeymen  and  apprentices  that  were  in  our  employ  when  we  first  commenced  publishing  our  paper  are 
dead ;  our  first  partner,  our  pecond  partner,  and  our  third  partner  are  dead,  and  our  first  assistant  and  our  last 
assistant  are  also  dead.  When  these  memories  come  over  us,  we  feel  like  one  alone  at  midnight  in  the  midst  of  a 
churchyard,  with  the  winds  sighing  mournfully  around  him  through  the  broken  tombs,  and  the  voices  of  the  ghosts 
of  departed  joys  sounding  dolefully  in  his  ears.  Our  prayer  to  God  is  that  such  memories  may  have  a  chastening 
and  purifying  and  elevating  influence  upon  us  and  fit  us  to  discharge,  better  than  we  have  ever  yet  done,  our  duties 
to  earth  and  to  heaven." 


176  THOMAS    H.    SIIRKVE.  [1830-40. 

times,  and  under  all  circumstances,  as  one  to  be  relied  upon — the  same  in  joy  or  in 
sorrow,  in  weal  or  in  woe,  in  adversity  or  prosperity,  in  life  or  in  death.  He  scorned 
a  meanness  with  the  same  heartiness  that  he  admired  a  noble  act.  He  made  no  con 
cessions  to  wrong,  and  bestowed  applause  in  no  stinted  words  upon  the  right.  From  his 
earliest  life  he  abhorred  all  doctrines  of  expediency  in  matters  of  moral  import,  and 
was  unrelenting  in  his  hostility  to  all  arguments  drawn  from  them.  He  stood  upright 
before  his  God,  and  his  fellow-man,  and  no  compromises  with  falsehood  or  error  were 
able  to  push  him  from  his  place.  What,  after  diligent  inquiry  and  the  exercise  of  the 
best  powers  of  his  mind,  he  believed  to  be  right,  was  right  to  him,  and  by  it  he  would 
stand  or  fall. 

These  earnest  words  in  his  praise  are  spoken  by  one  who  knew  him  in  young  man 
hood  and  mature  life  as  no  other  man  living  knew  him.  We  were  through  many 
years  his  associate  in  active  business,  in  editorial  employments,  in  literary  pursuits,  in 
the  schemes  of  youth  that  are  but  bubbles,  and  in  the  hopes  of  manhood  that  turn  to 
dust  and  ashes  upon  the  heart. 

In  his  religious  views,  Mr.  Shreve  was  a  Quaker.  This  was  the  education  of  his 
childhood,  and  his  matured  faculties  indorsed  it  as  correct.  The  sincerity  of  his  heart 
bore  testimony  to  its  truthfulness,  and  the  simplicity  of  his  manners  and  habits 
accorded  with  its  precepts  and  examples.  Some  of  the  strongest  articles  that  came 
from  his  hand,  in  his  later  years,  were  vindications  of  William  Penn  from  the  asper 
sions  of  the  historian  Macau  lay. 

Mr.  Shreve's  keenest  regrets,  aside  from  those  connected  with  his  separation  for  all 
time  from  his  wife,  children,  and  friends,  were  that  he  had  accomplished  so  little  in 
his  favorite  pursuit  of  literature.  Little  he  had  done,  indeed,  compared  with  what  he 
had  designed  and  would  have  achieved  had  a  few  more  years  been  permitted  him  in 
this  life :  but  should  a  collection  be  made  of  what  he  has  written,  as  we  earnestly 
hope  it  may,  and  a  careful  selection  be  taken  from  it,  it  will  be  found  that  he  accom 
plished  much  more  than  has  been  done  by  many  a  one  who  has  rested  from  his  labors 
and  been  content. 

In  1851,  "  Drayton,  an  American  Tale,"  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Shreve,  was  pub- 
lished  by  Harper  and  Brothers,  New  York.  It  was  favorably  reviewed  in  several  of 
the  leading  magazines  and  newspapers  of  the  East  as  well  as  of  the  West.  Its  plot 
is  of  more  than  common  interest,  and  many  of  its  pages  contain  admirable  examples 
of  character  painting.  The  hero  is  a  fair  representative  of  American  energy  and 
independence.  He  passes  from  the  shoemaker's  bench  to  a  position  of  honor  and  in 
fluence  in  the  legal  profession,  illustrating  in  his  career,  study  and  industry  well  cal 
culated  to  elevate  and  improve  young  men  who  are  denied  the  advantages  of  education 
and  family  influence. 

About  fourteen  years  before  his  death,  Mr.  Shreve  married  Octavia  Bullitt, 
daughter  of  the  late  Benjamin  Bullitt,  for  many  years  an  influential  citizen  of 
Louisiana.  She  survived  him,  and  partners  in  her  bitter  bereavement  were  three 
daughters — all  the  children  that  were  born  to  them. 


1830-40.] 


THOMAS    II .    SHREYE. 


177 


I  HAVE  NO  WIFE. 

I  HAVE  no  wife — and  I  can  go 

Just  where  I  please,  and  feel  as  free 
As  crazy  winds  which  choose  to  blow 

Round  mountain-tops  their  melody. 
On  those  who  have  Love's  race  to  run, 

Hope,  like  a  seraph,  smiles  most  sweet — 
But  they  who  Hymen's  goal  have  won, 

Sometimes,  'tis  said,  find  Hope  a  cheat 

I  have  no  wife — young  girls  are  fair — • 

But  how  it  is,  I  cannot  tell, 
No  sooner  are  they  wed,  than  their 

Enchantments  give  them  the  farewell. 
The  girls,  oh,  bless  them  !  make  us  yearn 

To  risk  all  odds  and  take  a  wife — 
To  cling  to  one,  and  not  to  turn 

Ten  thousand  in  the  dance  of  life. 

I  have  no  wife : — Who'd  have  his  nose 

Forever  tied  to  one  lone  flower, 
E'en  if  that  flower  should  be  a  rose, 

Plucked  with  light  hand  from  fairy  bower  ? 
Oh  !  better  far  the  bright  bouquet 

Of  flowers  of  every  hue  and  clime ; 
By  turns  to  charm  the  sense  away, 

And  fill  the  heart  with  dreams  sublime. 

I  have  no  wife : — I  now  can  change 

From  grave  to  joy,  from  light  to  sad 
Unfettered,  in  my  freedom  range 

And  fret  awhile,  and,  then,  be  glad. 
I  now  can  heed  a  Siren's  tongue, 

And  feel  that  eyes  glance  not  in  vain — 
Make  love  apace,  and,  being  flung, 

Get  up  and  try  my  luck  again. 

I  have  no  wife  to  pull  my  hair 

If  it  should  chance  entangled  be — 
I'm  like  the  lion  in  his  lair, 

Who  flings  his  mane  about  him  free. 
If  'tis  my  fancy,  I  can  wear 

My  boots  unblessed  by  blacking  paste, 
Cling  to  my  coat  till  it's  threadbare, 

Without  a  lecture  on  bad  taste. 


I  have  no  wife,  and  I  can  dream 

Of  girls  who're  worth  their  weight  in  gold; 
Can  bask  my  heart  in  Love's  broad  beam, 

And  dance  to  think  it's  yet  unsold. 
Or  I  can  look  upon  a  brow 

Which  mind  and  beauty  both  enhance, 
Go  to  the  shrine,  and  make  my  bow, 

And  thank  the  Fates  I  have  a  chance. 

I  have  no  wife,  and,  like  a  wave, 

Can  float  away  to  any  land, 
Curl  up  and  kiss,  or  gently  lave 

The  sweetest  flowers  that  are  at  hand. 
A  Pilgrim,  I  can  bend  before 

The     shrine     which    heart    and    mind 

approve  ; — 
Or,  Persian  like,  1  can  adore 

Each  star  that  gems  the  heaven  of  love. 

I  have  no  wife — in  heaven,  they  say, 

Such  things  as  weddings  are  not  known — 
Unyoked  the  blissful  spirits  stray 

O'er   fields  where   care    no   shade   has 

thrown. 
Then  why  not  have  a  heaven  below, 

And  let  fair  Hymen  hence  be  sent  ? 
It  would  be  fine — but  as  things  go, 

Unwedded,  folks  won't  be  content  f 


MY  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

OLD  Age's  twilight  dawn  hath  come, 

Its  first  gray  streak  is  here ! 
Gray  hair!  thou'rt  eloquent  though  dumb, 
And  art,  although  forever  mum, 
Pathetic  as  a  tear. 

Thou  art  a  solemn  joke !  In  sooth 

Enough  to  make  one  pout ! 
Thou  art  not  welcome — and  in  truth, 
Thy  hue  does  not  become  my  youth — 

Therefore  I'll  pull  thee  out. 


12 


178 


THOMAS    H.    SIIREVE. 


[1830-40. 


How  tight  you  stick !  I'm  not  in  play — 

You  melancholy  thing ! 
I'm  young  yet — and,  full  many  a  day, 
I'll  kiss  the  fresh-cheeked  morns  of  May 

And  woo  the  blushing  Spring. 

Go  blossom  on  some  grandsire's  head — 

Ye  waste  your  fragrance  here. 
I'd  rather  wear  a  wig  that's  red, 
With  flaming  locks,  and  radiance  shed 
Around  me,  far  and  near. 

I  am  not  married — and  gray  hair 

Looks  bad  on  bachelors. 
A  smooth,  un wrinkled  brow  I  wear ; 
My  teeth  are  sound — rheumatics  rare — 

Therefore  gray  hairs  are  bores. 

I  want  to  stand  upon  the  shore 

Of  matrimony's  sea, 
And  watch  the  barks  ride  proudly  o'er, 
Or  go  to  wreck  'mid  breakers'  roar, 

Ere  Hymen  launches  me. 

But  if  my  hair  should  change  to  gray, 

I  cannot  safely  stand, 
And  view  the  sea,  and  think  of  spray, 
Or  flirt  among  the  girls  who  play, 

On  wedded  life's  white  strand. 

My  neck  is  quite  too  tick'lish  yet 

To  wear  the  marriage  yoke  ! 
And  while  my  hair  is  black  as  jet, 
My  heart  can  smoke  Love's  calumet, 
And  not  with  grief's  be  broke. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  a  boy — 

I  can't  be  old  so  soon ! 
My  heart  of  maiden  aunts  is  coy, 
And  every  pulse  leaps  wild  with  joy, 

On  moonlight  nights  in  June. 

No  spectacles  surmount  my  nose— 

My  blood  is  never  cold — 
I  have  no  gout  about  my  toes — 
And  every  thing  about  me  shows 

'Tis  false — I  am  not  old ! 


DIRGE  OF  THE  DISAPPOINTED. 

'Tis  done  !  and  I  must  stand  alone  ! 

Unechoed  is  my  sigh  ; 
The  star  which  late  upon  me  shone, 
And  hopes  I  fondly  dreamed  my  own, 

Have  fallen  from  on  high. 

Ambition's  strife,  and  wildering  din, 

Were  life  to  my  unrest ; 
I  bent  my  energies  to  win 
The  wages  of  her  faith  and  sin, 

Arid  lost,  and  am  unbless'd. 

In  truth,  I  thought  the  wreath  of  fame 

Was  green  for  me  the  while ; 
And  o'er  my  soul  a  vision  came, 
Of  a  stern  conflict  and  a  name, 
And  woman's  priceless  smile. 

And  then,  life  was  a  summer  sea — 

No  cloud  above  it  hung — 
Far  o'er  its  sparkling  waters  free, 
Blithe  strains,  that  woke  my  ecstacy, 

From  fairy  harps  were  flung. 

But  shades  have  muffled  up  that  sky, 

The  sea  is  bright  no  more  ; — 
And  in  the  wild  wind's  sweeping  by, 
Methinks  I  hear  a  demon's  cry, 
That  echoes  on  its  shore. 

Vain  is  the  boasted  force  of  mind ; 

When  hope  hath  ta'en  her  flight ; 
Then  memory  is  most  unkind — 
Arid  thought  is  as  the  dread  whirlwind, 

That  works  on  earth  its  blight. 

Then  let  the  storm  rave  round  my  head, 

Its  spirits  ride  the  blast : 
For  since  the  dream  of  youth  is  fled, 
The  wild-flowers  of  my  heart  are  dead, 

Arid  happiness  is  past, 

I've  learned  that  man  may  love  too  well 
The  fiction  of  his  heart : 


1830-40.] 


THOMAS    H.    SHREVE. 


179 


And  thought  can  lure  where  shadows  dwell, 
And  .veave  a  dark  and  bitter  spell 
With  an  all-blighting  art. 

'Tis  vain  to  think  of  what  has  been, 

Or  dream  of  what  may  be — 
To  linger  o'er  a  sunny  scene, 
Which  beauty  robes  in  smiling  sheen, 

When  thought  is  misery. 


THE  USED  UP. 

THE  jig  is  up :  I  have  been  flung 

Sky-high — and  worse  than  that: 
The  girl  whose  praises  I  have  sung, 
With  pen,  with  pencil,  and  with  tongue, 
Said  "No"— and  I  felt  flat. 

Now,  I  will  neither  rave  nor  rant, 

Nor  my  hard  fate  deplore : 
Why  should  a  fellow  look  aslant 
If  one  girl  says  she  won't,  or  can't, 

While  there's  so  many  more  ? 

I  strove  my  best — it  wouldn't  do ! 

I  told  her  she'd  regret — 
She'd  ruin  my  heart — and  chances,  too, 
As  girls  don't  like  those  fellows,  who 

Their  walking  papers  get. 

In  truth  I  loved  her  very  well, 

And  thought  that  she  loved  me  ! 
The  reason  why,  I  cannot  tell, 
But,  when  I  wooed  this  pretty  belle — 
'Twas  a  mistake  in  me. 

She's  dark  of  eye — and  her  sweet  smile, 

Like  some  of  which  I've  read, 
Is  false — for  she,  with  softest  guile, 
Lured   me   'mong   rocks,   near   Love's 

bright  isle, 
And  then — she  cut  me  dead. 


My  vanity  was  wounded  sore — 

And  that  I  hate  the  worst : 
You  see  a  haughty  look  I  wore, 
And  thought  she  could  not  but  adore, 

Of  all  men,  me  the  first. 

Well,  thank  the  fates,  once  more  I'm  free ; 

At  every  shrine  I'll  bow ; 
And  if,  again,  a  girl  cheat  me, 
Exceeding  sharp  I  guess  she'll  be — 

I've  cut  my  eye-teeth  now. 

Oh  !  like  the  bumblebee,  I'll  rove, 
Just  when  and  where  I  please — 
Inhaling  sweets  from  every  grove, 
Humming  around  each  flower  I  love, 
And  dancing  in  each  breeze. 


TO  MY  STEED. 

ONWARD  thou  dashest,  gallant  steed, 
Away  from  all  the  haunts  of  men! 

My  heart  from  care  is  wholly  freed, 
And  revels  in  bright  dreams  again. 

Men  call  thee  beast !     Away,  away, 
Thou  art  to  me  a  chosen  friend — 

Press  on  to  where  the  bright  rills  play, 
And  vigor  to  thy  sinews  lend ! 

Ha !    steed,  thou    hear'st ;  and    now  thy 
bound 

Is  graceful  as  a  billow's  sweep  ; 
The  eagle's  soaring  wing  hath  found 

No  freedom  greater  than  thy  leap. 

And  now  we  climb  the  oak-crowned  hill ; 

The  valley  smiles  like  one  I've  loved ; 
And  breezes  bathe  my  brow,  and  fill 

My    heart   with    kindness,   heaven-ap 
proved. 


180 


THOMAS    H.   SHREVE. 


[1830-40. 


The  light  clouds  in  the  distance  loom, 
Like  hopes  before  youth's  tearless  eye ; 

And  blithely  in  the  woodland  gloom, 
Each  bird  lifts  up  his  voice  on  high. 

My  mind  is  growing  young  again, — 
Flings  off  the  discipline  of  years, 

Forgets  that  joy  is  ever  vain — 
A  gleam  upon  a  fount  of  tears. 

The  fire  of  other  days  now  glows, 
Diffusing  fervor  o'er  my  frame  ; 

Free  as  thy  mane,  the  hot  blood  flows 
And  circles  round  my  heart  like  flame. 

My  spirit  echoes  every  strain 

That  floats  upon  the  merry  breeze, 

And  riots  o'er  the  spreading  plain, 

Or  mounts  to  starry  heights  with  ease. 

Onward,  my  steed,  with  right  good  will — 
We've  left  the  world  of  care  behind  ; 

Hope  glances  from  each  playful  rill, 
And  songs  of  joy  are  on  the  wind. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS. 

THERE  is  a  beauty  on  Night's  queen-like 

brow, 

With  her  rich  jewelry  of  blazing  stars, 
That  to  the  heart  which  yearns  for  purer 

scenes 

And  holier  love  than  greets  it  here,  appeals 
With  a  resistless  force.  Great  Nature  then 
Asserts  her  empire  o'er  the  souls  of  those, 
Her  favored  children,  on  whose  eager  ears 
There  falls  no  wind  which  hath  no  melody, 
And  to  whose  eyes  each  star  unfolds  a 

world 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss.     The  poet  feels 
1  lie  inspiration  of  an  hour  like  this, 
When  silence  like  a  garment  wraps  the 

earth, 
And  when  the  soundless  air  seems  populous 


With  gentle  spirits  hovering  o'er  the  haunts 
Which  most  they  loved  while  prisoned  in 

their  clay. 

The  mysteries  of  the  universe  then  woo 
His  mind,  and  lead  it  up  from  height  to 

height 

Of  lofty  speculation,  to  the  Throne 
Round  which  all  suns  and  worlds  and  sys 
tems  roll. 
The  Past  for   him   unlocks    her    affluent 

stores, 
And  human  crowds  long  gathered  home  by 

death 

To  his  dark  kingdom,  people  earth  again. 
Palmyra  rears  her  towers  above  the  dust 
And  proudly  points  her  glittering  spires  to 

heaven — 

Rome  rises  up  and  seems  as  once  she  was, 
Her  haughty  eagles  floating  o'er  her  hills 
And  flashing  back  the  gaudy  light  of  day 
Into  the  blue  above — and  Babylon 
Lifts  up  her  head,  and  o'er  her  gardens 

wide 
The  south  wind  wantons,  while  her  massive 

gates 

Swing  on  their  hinges  as  the  human  tide 
Beats  up  against  them.  Thus  rapt  fancy 

oft 

Doth  build  again  what,  with  his  iron  heel 
Wild  Ruin  ground  into  the  very  dust, 
Which   cloud-like   rises  on  the   tempest's 

wings 
As  it  all-conquering  sweeps  the  desert's 

waste. 

Such  is  the  talismanic  power  divine 
Of  Genius  over  death  and  time  and  space. 
It  reads  the  dim  memorials  on  the  tombs 
Of  buried  empires — peoples  solitudes — 
And  sways  its  scepter  o'er  the  realms  of 

night. 

In  its  blest  missions  to  the  homes  of  men 
It  turns  aside  from  palaces  and  pomp, 
And  gently  stoops  to  kiss  the  pearly  brow 
Of  the  boy  peasant  'neath  the  humblest 

roof. 
With  eye  anointed,  it  hath  read  the  stars, 


1830-40.] 


THOMAS    H.    SHREVE. 


181 


And  traced  out  on  the  boundless  blue  of 

heaven 
The  wanderings  of  worlds.     Its  voice  goes 

forth, 

And  o'er  the  billows  of  time's  wasteful  sea 
It  rolleth  on  forever.     It  hath  sung 
Old  Ocean's  praise,  and  with  his  surges' 

roar 
Its  song  will  ever  mingle. 


TO  AN  INDIAN  MOUND. 


WHENCE,  and  why  art  thou  here,  mysteri 
ous  mound  ? 
Are  questions  which  man  asks,  but  asks 

in  vain ; 
For  o'er  thy  destinies  a  night  profound, 

All  rayless  and  all  echoless,  doth  reign. 
A  thousand  years  have  passed  like  yester 
day, 
Since  wint'ry  snows  first  on  thy  bosom 

slept, 

And  much  of  mortal  grandeur  passed  away, 
Since  thou  hast  here  thy  voiceless  vigils 
kept. 

While  standing  thus  upon  thy  oak-crowned 

head, 

The  shadows  of  dim  ages  long  since  gone 
Reel   on   my  mind,  like  specters  of  the 

dead, 
While  dirge-like  music  haunts  the  wind's 

low  moan. 

From  out  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  Past 
There  rises  up  no  voice  of  thee  to  tell : 
Eternal  silence,  like  a  shadow  vast, 

Broods  on  thy  breast,  and  shrouds  thine 
annals  well. 


Didst  thou  not  antedate  the  rise  of  Rome, 
Egyptia's  pyramids,  and  Grecian  arts  ? 


Did   not   the  wild  deer   here  for  shelter 

come 
Before  the  Tyrrhene  sea  had  ships  or 

marts  ? 
Through  shadows  deep  and  dark  the  mind 

must  pierce, 
Which  glaces  backward  to  that  ancient 

time: 

Nations  before  it  fall  in  struggles  fierce, 
Where   human   glory  fades  in   human 
crime. 


Upon  the  world's  wide  stage  full  many  a 

scene 
Of  grandeur  and  of  gloom,  of  blood  and 

blight, 

Hath  been  enacted  since  thy  forests  green 
Sighed  in  the  breeze  and  smiled  in  morn 
ing's  light. 
Thou  didst  not  hear  the  woe,  nor  heed  the 

crime, 
Which  darken'd  earth  through  ages  of 

distress ; 
Unknowing  and    unknown,   thou    stood'st 

sublime, 
And  calmly  looked  upon  the  wilderness. 


The  red  man  oft  hath  lain  his  aching  head, 
When   weary   of  the  chase,  upon  thy 

breast ; 
And  as  the  slumberous  hours  fast  o'er  him 

fled, 
Has    dreamed   of    hunting-grounds    in 

climes  most  blest. 
Perhaps  his  thoughts  ranged  through  the 

long  past  time, 
Striving   to   solve   the  problem   of  thy 

birth, 
Till  wearied  out  with  dreams,  dim  though 

sublime, 

His   fancy   fluttered   back  to   him  and 
earth. 


The  eagle  soaring  through  the  upper  air, 
Checks  his  proud  flight,  and  glances  on  thy 
crest, 


182 


THOMAS    H.   SHREVE. 


[1830-40. 


As  though  his  destiny  were  pictured  there 
In    the  deep   solitude  that   wraps   thy 

breast. 
Thy  reign  must  soon  be  o'er — the  human 

tide 

Is  surging  round  thee  like  a  restless  sea  ; 
And   thou  must  yield  thy  empire  and  thy 

pride, 
And  like  thy  builders,  soon  forgotten  be. 


YOUTH'S  VISION  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

BEFORE  we  hear  the  mournful  chime 
Of  sadness  falling  on  the  hours, 

Before  we  feel  the  winds  of  Time 

Like  frost-breath  on  the  heart's  wild 
flowers, — 

We  stand  by  Life's  mysterious  stream, 
Viewing  the  stars  reflected  there ; 

And  dream  not  that  each  vivid  gleam 
Can  ever  be  o'ercast  by  care. 

But  as  its  murmurs  gently  rise, 

The  lute's  soft  magic  haunts  each  tone  ; — 
We  hear  not  stricken  hearts'  sad  sighs, 

Or  dark-browed  Grief's  unwelcome 
moan. 

Like  some  weird  sybil,  Fancy,  then, 
The  Future's  tale  breathes  on  the  heart, 

Conjuring  up  heroic  men 

And  women  acting  angels'  part. 

Fame  whispers  to  the  eager  ear 
Of  mighty  triumphs  to  be  won, 

Of  laurels  which  no  time  shall  sear, 
And  banners  flaunting  in  the  sun. 

She  points  us  to  the  lordly  few 

Whose  brows  no  shades  oblivious  wear, — 
Entranced  by  them,  we  do  not  view 

The  ghosts  of  thousands  inurned  there. 


Life  is  not  formed  of  flattering  dreams, 
But  duties  which  rouse  up  the  soul, 

While,  here  and  there,  there  shoot  star- 
gleams 
To  light  the  laborer  to  his  goal. 


THE  BLISS  OF  HOME. 

MINE  be  the  joy  which  gleams  around 
The  hearth  where  pure  affections  dwell — 

Where  love  enrobed  in  smiles  is  found, 
And  wraps  the  spirit  with  its  spell. 

I  would  not  seek  excitement's  whirl, 
Where  Pleasure  wears  her  tinsel  crown, 

And  Passion's  billows  upward  curl, 

'Neath  Hatred's  darkly  gathering  frown. 

The  dearest  boon  from  heaven  above, 
Is  bliss  which  brightly  hallows  home — 

The  sunlight  of  our  world  of  love, 
Unknown  to  those  who  reckless  roam. 

There  is  a  sympathy  of  heart 

Which  consecrates  the  social  shrine, 

Robs  grief  of  gloom,  and  doth  impart 
A  joy  to  gladness  all  divine. 

It  glances  from  the  kindling  eye, 

Which  o'er  Affliction  sleepless  tends — 

It  gives  deep  pathos  to  the  sigh 

Which  anguish  from  the  bosom  rends. 

It  plays  around  the  smiling  lip, 

When  Love  bestows  the  greeting  kiss — 
And  sparkles  in  each  cup  we  sip 

Round  the  domestic  board  in  bliss  ! 

Let  others  seek  in  Wealth  or  Fame, 
A  splendid  path  whereon  to  tread — 

['d  rather  wear  a  lowlier  name, 
With  Love's  enchantments  round  it  shed. 

Fame's  but  a  light  to  gild  the  grave, 
And  Wealth  can  never  calm  the  breast — 

But  Love,  a  halcyon  on  Life's  wave, 
Hath  power  to  soothe  its  strifes  to  rest. 


1830-40.] 


THOMAS    H.    SHU  EVE. 


183 


REFLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PIONEER. 

THE  Eternal  Sea 

Is  surging  up  before  my  dreaming  mind  ; 
And  on  my  ear,  grown  dull  to  things  of 

earth, 

Its  sounds  are  audible.     My  spirit  soon 
Shall  brave  its  billows,  like  a  trusty  bark, 
And  seek  the  shore  where  shadows  never 

fall. 
Oh,  I  have  lived  too  long  !     Have  I  not 

seen 
The  suns   of    four-score    summers  set  in 

gloom  ? 
Hath  not  my  heart  long  sepulchered  its 

hopes, 

And  desolation  swept  my  humble  hearth  ? 
All  that  I  prized  have  passed  away,  like 

clouds 

Which  float  a  moment  on  the  twilight  sky 
And  fade  in  night.     The  brow  of  her  I 

loved 

Is  now  resplendent  in  the  light  of  heaven. 
They  who  flung  sunlight  on  my  path  in 

youth, 

Have  gone  before  me  to  the  cloudless  clime. 
I  stand  alone,  like  some  dim  shaft  which 

throws 
Its  shadow  on   the  desert's  waste,  while 

they 
Who  placed  it  there  are  gone—  or  like  the 

tree 
Spared  by   the   ax   upon  the   mountain's 

cliff, 
Whose  sap  is  dull,  while  it  still  wears  the 

hue 
Of  life  upon  its  withered  limbs. 

Of  earth 

And  all  its  scenes,  my  heart  is  weary  now. 
'Tis  mine  no  longer  to  indulge  in  what 
Gave  life  its  bliss,  jeweled  the  day  witl 


And  made  my  slumbers  through  the  nigh 

as  sweet 
As  infant's  dreaming  on  its  mother's  breast 


The  blood  is  sluggish  in  each  limb,  and  I 
No  longer  chase  the  startled  deer,  or  track 
The  wily  fox,  or  climb  the  mountain's  side. 
My  eye  is  dim,  and  cannot  see  the  stars 
Flash  in  the  stream,  or  view  the  gathering 

storm, 

Or  trace  the  figures  of  familiar  things 
In  the  light  tapestry  that  decks  the  sky. 
My  ear  is  dull,  and  winds  autumnal  pass 
And  wake  no  answering  chime  within  my 

breast : 
The  songs  of  birds  have  lost  their  whilom 

spells, 

And  water-falls,  unmurmuring,  pass  me  by. 
Tis  time  that  I  were  not.     The  tide  of  life 
Bears  not  an  argosy  of  hope  for  me, 
And  its  dull  waves  surge  up  against  my 

heart, 
Like  billows  'gainst  a  rock.     The  forests 

wide, 

All  trackless  as  proud  Hecla's  snowy  cliffs, 
From  which,  in  youth,  I  drew  my  inspira 
tion, 
Have  fallen  round  me ;  and  the  waving 

fields 

Bow  to  the  reaper,  where  I  wildly  roamed. 
Cities  now  rise  where  I  pursued  the  deer ; 
And  dust  offends  me  where,  in  happier 

years, 

I  breathed  in  vigor  from  untainted  gales. 
Nature  hath  bowed  before  all-conquering 

Art — 
Hath  dropped  the  reign  of  empire,  which 

she  held 
With  princely  pride,  when  first  I  met  her 

here. 

The  old  familiar  things,  to  which  my  heart 
Clung  with  deep  fondness,  each,  and  all, 

are  gone ; 

And  I  am  like  the  patriarch  who  stood 
Forgotten  at  the  altar  which  he  built, 
While  crowds  rushed  by  who  knew  him 

not,  and  sneered 
At  his  simplicity. 


FREDERICK  W.  THOMAS. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  THOMAS  is  a  native  of  South  Carolina.  He  was  born  at 
Charleston,  in  the  year  1811.  His  father,  E.  S.  Thomas — a  nephew  of  Isaiah 
Thomas,  author  of  "The  History  of  Printing" — was  then  the  proprietor  of  the 
Charleston  City  Gazette.  In  1816,  Mr.  Thomas  sold  the  Gazette  and  removed  to 
Baltimore.  Frederick  William  was  there  educated.  In  early  life  he  met  with  an 
accident  which  so  seriously  injured  his  left  leg  that  he  has  ever  since  been  required  to 
use  a  cane  or  crutch.  In  consequence  of  that  misfortune  he  was  never  a  regular 
student  at  school,  but  he  was  naturally  inclined  to  reading  and  thinking,  and  was 
judiciously  directed  and  encouraged  by  his  relatives.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he 
began  the  study  of  law,  and  when  not  more  than  eighteen  years  old,  wrote  a  political 
satire  in  verse,  which  caused  the  office  of  the  newspaper,  in  which  it  was  published,  to 
be  demolished  by  a  mob. 

In  1829  his  father  emigrated  from  Baltimore  to  Cincinnati,  and  established,  in  the 
latter  city,  the  Daily  Commercial  Advertiser.  The  following  year,  Frederick  William 
gave  up  the  law  practice  which,  among  kind  friends,  he  had  just  begun  in  Baltimore, 
determined  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  far  West.  Soon  after  he  arrived  in  Cincinnati,  he 
published,  in  the  Commercial  Advertiser,  a  number  of  stanzas  of  a  poem  written  while 
he  was  descending  the  Ohio  River.  In  1832  the  entire  poem  was  delivered  in  the 
hall  of  the  Young  Men's  Lyceum,  and  was  spoken  of  as  a  very  creditable  perform 
ance  by  Charles  Hammond,  in  the  Cincinnati  Gazette.  This,  with  other  favorable 
notices,  induced  the  author  to  offer  it  for  publication,  and  it  was  issued  in  a  neat 
pamphlet  of  forty-eight  duodecimo  pages,  by  Alexander  Flash,  in  1833.  It  was  called 
"  The  Emigrant,"  and  was  dedicated  to  Charles  Hammond.  Extracts  from  it  have  found 
their  way  into  many  magazines  and  newspapers  of  large  circulation,  and  into  popular 
school  books.  Mr.  Thomas  assisted  his  father  in  the  editorial  management  of  the 
Advertiser,  and  wrote  frequently  for  other  local  journals.  His  very  popular  song, 
"'Tis  said  that  Absence  conquers  Love,"  was  contributed  to  the  Cincinnati  American 
in  July,  1831.  In  1834,  Mr.  Thomas  engaged  with  John  B.  Dillon  and  L.  Sharp 
in  the  publication  of  The  Democratic  Intelligencer,  a  daily,  tri-weekly  and  weekly 
journal,  which  advocated  the  claims  of  John  McLean  as  a  candidate  for  the  office  of 
President  of  the  United  States.  The  Intelligencer  had  a  brief  career,  and  Mr. 
Thomas,  in  1835,  assisted  his  father  in  the  editorial  conduct  of  the  Daily  Evening 
Post,  a  journal  which  succeeded  the  Daily  Advertiser.  The  Post  was  distinguished 
for  encouraging  notices  of  artists  and  authors,  and  for  earnest  advocacy  of  enterprises 
calculated  to  enhance  the  business  interests  of  the  city,  but  its  financial  affairs  were 
poorly  managed,  and  it  was  discontinued  in  1839. 


i*oU-4U.]  FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS.  185 

About  the  time  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Post,  Mr.  Thomas  had  finished 
"  Clinton  Bradshaw,"  a  novel,  which  was  published  by  Carey,  Lea  and  Blanchard,  in 
Philadelphia,  in  the  autumn  of  1835.  The  next  year  he  wrote  "East  and  West;" 
and  in  1837  "Howard  Pinckney."  These  novels  were  also  published  in  Philadelphia 
by  the  firm  which  brought  out  "  Clinton  Bradshaw,"  but  neither  of  them  was  as  pop 
ular  as  that  work,  which  was  received  with  marked  favor,  on  account  of  its  admirable 
delineations  of  peculiar  characters.  It  was  republished  at  Cincinnati,  by  Robinson 
and  Jones,  in  1848. 

Between  1835  and  1840,  Mr.  Thomas  wrote,  for  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  for  the 
Weekly  Chronicle,  and  for  the  Hesperian,  numerous  poems  and  sketches.  Several 
of  those  sketches  are  included  in  a  volume  entitled  "  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  and 
other  Public  Characters,"  a  duodecimo  volume,  published  in  Philadelphia  in  1853. 
In  1840,  Mr.  Thomas  "took  the  stump"  in  Ohio  for  William  Henry  Harrison,  as  a 
candidate  for  the  Presidency,  and  won  friends  as  a  popular  orator.  Since  that  time  he 
has  lectured  extensively  with  much  success  on  "  Eloquence,"  on  "  Early  struggles  of 
Eminent  Men,"  and  other  popular  topics.  In  1841,  Thomas  Ewing,  Secretary  of  the 
United  States  Treasury,  appointed  Mr.  Thomas  to  select  a  library  for  that  department 
of  Government,  which  duty  he  discharged  with  credit  to  himself  and  the  department. 
He  resided  in  Washington  till  1850,  when  he  returned  to  Cincinnati,  and  was,  for  a 
brief  period,  a  minister  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  He  was  afterward  Pro 
fessor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature  in  the  Alabama  University,  but  having 
determined  to  resume  the  practice  of  his  legal  profession,  settled  at  Cambridge,  Mary 
land,  in  1858.  In  the  early  part  of  1860  he  was  induced,  however,  to  put  on  again 
the  editorial  harness,  and  now  conducts  the  literary  department  of  the  Richmond 
(Virginia)  Enquirer. 

Perhaps  the  secret  of  the  irregular  pursuit  of  the  profession  chosen  in  his  youth, 
which  our  sketch  of  Mr.  Thomas's  career  exhibits,  was  given  by  him  in  a  stanza  of 
the  "  Emigrant : " 

"Soon  must  I  mingle  in  the  wordy  war 
Where  knavery  takes,  in  vice,  her  sly  degrees, 
As  slip  away,  not  guilty,  from  the  bar, 
Counsel  or  client,  as  their  Honors  please, 
To  breathe,  in  crowded  courts,  a  pois'nous  breath — 
To  plead  for  life— to  justify  a  death — 
To  wrangle,  jar,  to  twist,  to  twirl,  to  toil — 
This  is  the  lawyer's  life — a  heart-consuming  moil." 

A  collection  of  Mr.  Thomas's  poems  has  never  been  made.  In  1844,  Harper  and 
Brothers,  New  York,  published  a  volume  entitled  "  The  Beechen  Tree,  a  Tale  in 
Rhyme."  With  the  "  Emigrant,"  several  well  known  songs,  and  a  few  satirical  poems 
and  epigrams,  it  would  constitute  an  acceptable  book,  which  we  hope  Mr.  Thomas  will 
compile.  Rufus  Wilmot  Griswold,  in  the  "Poets  of  America,"  said  of  Mr.  Thomas: 
"  He  has  a  nice  discrimination  of  the  peculiarities  of  character,  which  give  light  and 
shade  to  the  surface  of  society,  and  a  hearty  relish  for  that  peculiar  humor  which 
abounds  in  that  portion  of  our  country  which  undoubtedly  embraces  most  that  is 


186 


FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS. 


[1830-40. 


original  and  striking  in  manners  and  unrestrained  in  conduct.     He  must  rank  with  the 
first  illustrators  of  manners  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi." 

E.  8.  Thomas,  the  father  of  Frederick  William,  died  in  Cincinnati  in  1847.  He 
was  the  author  of  "Reminiscenses  of  the  Last  Sixty-Five  Years;"  a  work  in  two 
volumes,  published  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  in  1840,  which  contains  historical 
and  biographical  sketches  of  permanent  interest  to  the  people  of  the  West.  Lewis 
F.,  a  brother  of  Frederick  W.,  is  a  poet,  of  whom  notice  is  hereafter  taken  in  this 
work.  Martha  M.,  a  sister,  has  written  acceptably  for  many  magazines,  and  is  the 
author  of  "Life's  Lesson,"  a  novel  published  by  Harper  and  Brothers  in  1855.  The 
home  of  the  family  is  now  Cincinnati.  One  of  the  brothers,  Calvin  W.,  is  a  well 
known  banker. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  :i  THE  EMIGRANT." 

THE  PIONEER  HUNTERS. 

HERE  once  Boone  trod — the  hardy  Pio 
neer — 

The  only  white  man  in  the  wilderness  : 

Oh!  how  he  loved,  alone,  to  hunt  the 
deer, 

Alone  at  eve,  his  simple  meal  to  dress ; 

No  mark  upon  the  tree,  nor  print,  nor 
track, 

To  lead  him  forward,  or  to  guide  him 
back : 

He  roved  the  forest,  king  by  main  and 

might, 

And  looked  up  to  the  sky  and  shaped  his 
course  aright. 

That  mountain,  there,  that  lifts  its  bald, 
high  head 

Above  the  forest,  was,  perchance,  his 
throne ; 

Tin-re  has  he  stood  and  marked  the 
woods  outspread, 

Like  a  great  kingdom,  that  was  all  his 
own  ; 

In  bunting-shirt  and  moccasins  arrayed, 

With  bear-skin  cap,  and  pouch,  and  need 
ful  blade, 


How  carelessly  he  lean'd  upon  his  gun ! 
That  scepter  of  the  wild,  that  had  so  often 
won. 

Those  western  Pioneers  an  impulse  felt, 

Which  their  less  hardy  sons  scarce  com 
prehend  ; 

Alone,  in  Nature's  wildest  scenes  they 
dwelt ; 

Where  crag,  and  precipice,  and  torrent 
blend, 

And  stretched  around  the  wilderness,  as 
rude 

As  the  red  rovers  of  its  solitude, 

Who  watched  their  coming  with  a  hate 

profound, 

And  fought  with  deadly  strife  for  every 
inch  of  ground. 

To  shun  a  greater  ill  sought  they  the 
wild? 

No,  they  left  happier  lands  behind  them 
far, 

And  brought  the  nursing  mother  and  her 
child 

To  share  the  dangers  of  the  border  war. 

The  log-built  cabin  from  the  Indian  bar 
red, 

Their  little  boy,  perchance,  kept  watch 
and  ward, 


1830-40.] 


FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS. 


187 


While  father  plowed  with  rifle  at  his 

back, 

Or  sought  the  glutted  foe  through  many  a 
devious  track. 

How  cautiously,  yet  fearlessly,  that  boy 
Would  search  the  forest  for  the  wild 

beast's  lair, 

And  lift  his  rifle  with  a  hurried  joy, 
If  chance  he  spied  the  Indian  lurking 

there : 
And  should  they  bear  him  prisoner  from 

the  fight, 
While  they  are  sleeping,  in  the  dead 

midnight, 
He  slips  the  thongs  that  bind  him  to  the 

tree, 
And  leaving  death  with  them,  bounds  home 

right  happily. 

Before  the  mother,  bursting  through  the 

door, 
The  red  man  rushes  where  her  infants 

rest; 

O  God !  he  hurls  them  on  the  cabin  floor ! 
While  she,  down  kneeling,  clasps  them 

to  her  breast. 

How  he  exults  and  revels  in  her  woe, 
And    lifts  the  weapon,  yet  delays  the 

blow  ; 
Ha !  that  report !  behold !  he  reels  !  he 

dies! 
And  quickly  to  her  arms  the  husband — 

father — flies. 

In  the  long  winter  eve,  their  cabin  fast, 
The  big  logs   blazing  in   the   chimney 

wide — 
They'd  hear  the  Indian  howling,  or  the 

blast, 
And    deem    themselves    in    castellated 

pride : 

Then  would  the  fearless  forester  disclose 
Most  strange  adventures  with  his  sylvan 

foes, 


Of  how  his  arts  did  over  theirs  prevail, 
And  how  he  followed  far  upon  their  bloody 
trail. 

And  it  was  happiness,  they  said,  to  stand, 

When  summer  smiled  upon  them  in  the 
wood, 

And  see  their  little  clearing  there  ex 
pand, 

And  be  the  masters  of  the  solitude. 

Danger  was  but  excitement ;  and  when 
came 

The  tide  of  emigration,  life  grew  tame  ; 

Then  would  they  seek  some  unknown 

wild  anew, 

And  soon,  above  the  trees,  the  smoke  was 
curling  blue. 

THE  RED  MAN. 

How  patient  was  that  red  man  of  the 

wood ! 

Not  like  the  white  man,  garrulous  of  ill — 
Starving  !  who  heard  his  faintest  wish 

for  food  ? 

Sleeping  upon  the  snow-drift  on  the  hill ! 
Who  heard  him   chide  the  blast,  or  say 

'twas  cold? 
His  wounds  are  freezing !  is  the  anguish 

told  ? 
Tell  him  his  child  was  murdered  with 

its  mother! 
He  seems  like  carved  out  stone  that  has  no 

woe  to  smother. 

With  front  erect,  up-looking,  dignified — 

Behold  high  Hecla  in  eternal  snows  ! 

Yet  while  the  raging  tempest  is  defied, 

Deep  in  its  bosom  how  the  pent  flame 
glows ! 

And   when  it  bursts  forth  in  its  fiery 
wrath ! 

How  melts  the  ice-hill  from  its  fearful 
path, 

As  on  it   rolls,  unquench'd,  and  all  un 
tamed  ! — 

Thus  was  it  with  that  chief  when  his  wild 
passions  flamed. 


188 


FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS. 


[1830-10. 


Nature's  own  statesman — by  experience 

taught, 
He  judged  most  wisely,  and  could  act  as 

well; 
With  quickest  glance  could  read  another's 

thought, 
His  own,  the  while,  the  keenest  could 

not  tell; 

Warrior — with  skill  to  lengthen,  or  com 
bine, 

Lead  on  or  back,  the  desultory  line ; 
Hunter — he  passed  the  trackless  forest 

through, 
Now  on  the  mountain  trod,  now  launch'd 

the  light  canoe. 

To  the  Great  Spirit,  would  his  spirit  bow, 

With  hopes  that  Nature's  impulses  im 
part; 

Unlike  the  Christian,  who  just  says  his 
vow 

With  heart  enough  to  say  it  all  by  heart. 

Did  we   his  virtues  from  his  faults  dis 
cern, 

'Twould  teach  a  lesson  that   we   well 
might  learn : 

An  inculcation  worthiest  of  our  creed, 
To  tell  the  simple  truth,  and  do  the  prom 
ised  deed. 

How  deeply  eloquent  was  the  debate, 
Beside  the  council-fire  of  those  red  men  ! 
With  language  burning  as  his  sense  of 

hate ; 
With  gesture  just;  as  eye  of  keenest 

ken  ; 

With  illustration  simple  but  profound, 
Drawn  from  the  sky  above  him,  or  the 

ground 
Beneath  his  feet ;  and  with  unfalt'ring 

zeal, 
He  spoke  from  a  warm  heart  and  made 

e'en  cold  hearts  feel. 

And  this  is  eloquence.     'Tis  the  intense, 
Impassioned    fervor    of  a    mind    deep 
fraught 


With    native    energy,    when    soul    and 
sense 

Burst   forth,  embodied  in    the  burning 
thought ; 

When  look,  emotion,  tone,  are  all  com 
bined — 

When  the  whole  man  is  eloquent  with 
mind — 

A  power  that  comes  not  to  the  call  or 

quest, 

But  from  the  gifted  soul,  and  the  deep  feel 
ing  breast. 

Poor  Logan  had  it,  when  he  mourned 
that  none 

Were  left  to  mourn  for  him ; — 'twas  his 
who  swayed 

The  Roman  Senate  by  a  look  or  tone  ; 

'Twas  the  Athenian's,  when  his  foes,  dis 
mayed, 

Shrunk    from    the    earthquake   of    his 
trumpet  call ; 

'Twas  Chatham's,  strong  as  either,  or  as 
all; 

'Twas   Henry's  holiest,  when  his  spirit 

woke 

Our  patriot  fathers'  zeal  to  burst  the  Brit 
ish  yoke. 

LOVE. 

O,  Love  !  what  rhymer  has  not  sung  of 
thee? 

And,  who,  with  heart  so  young  as  his 
who  sings, 

Knows  not  thou  art  self-burdened  as  the 
bee, 

Who,  loving  many  flowers,  must  needs 
have  wings  ? 

Yes,  thou  art  wing'd,  0,  Love !  like  pass 
ing  thought, 

That  now  is  with  us,  and  now  seems  as 
naught, 

Until  deep  passion  stamps  thee  in  the 

brain, 

Like  bees  in  folded  flowers  that  ne'er  un 
fold  again. 


1830-40.] 


FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS. 


18S 


TO  THE  OHIO. 

Auspicious  Time !  unroll  the  scroll  of 
years — 

Behold  our  pious  pilgrim  fathers,  when 

They    launch'd   their   little    bark,    and 
braved  all  fears, 

Those      peril-seeking,     freedom-loving 
men ! 

Bless  thee  thou  stream !  abiding  bless 
ings  bless 

Thy  farthest  wave — Nile  of  the  wilder 
ness  ! 

And  be  thy  broad  lands  peopled,  far  and 

wide, 

With  hearts  as  free  as  his  who  now  doth 
bless  thy  tide. 

And  may  new  States  arise,  and  stretch 
afar, 

In  glory,  to  the  great  Pacific  shore — 

A  galaxy,  without  a  falling  star — 

Freedom's  own  Mecca,  where  the  world 
adore. 

There  may  Art  build — to   Knowledge 
there  be  given, 

The  book  of  Nature  and  the  light  of 
Heav'n ; 

There  be  the  statesman's  and  the  patri 
ot's  shrine, 

And  oh!  be  happy  there,  the  hearts  that 
woo  the  nine. 

There  is  a  welcome  in  this  western  land 
Like  the  old  welcomes,  which  were  said 

to  give 
The  friendly  heart  where'er  they  gave 

the  hand ; 

Within  this  soil  the  social  virtues  live, 
Like  its  own  forest  trees,  unprun'd  anc 

free — 
At  least  there  is  one  welcome  here  for 

me: 
A  breast  that  pillowed  all  my  sorrows 

past, 
And  waits  my  coming  now,  and  lov'd  me 

first  and  last. 


WOMAN. 

How  beautiful  is  woman's  life, 

When  first  her  suppliant  woos  and  kneels, 
And  she  with  young  and  warm  hopes  rife, 

Believes  he  deeply  feels  ! 

Then  day  is  gladness,  and  the  night 
Looks  on  her  with  its  starry  eyes, 

As  though  it  gave  her  all  their  might 
Over  men's  destinies. 

Rapt  watchers  of  the  skyey  gleam, 
Then  men  are  like  astronomers, 

Who  gaze  and  gladden  at  the  beam 
Of  that  bright  eye  of  hers. 

And  should  a  frown  obscure  its  light, 
'Tis  like  a  cloud  to  star-struck  men, 

Through  the  long  watches  of  the  night : 
O !  for  that  beam  again  ! 

How  heart-struck,  that  astrologer, 

A  gazer  on  the  starry  zone, 
When  first  he  looked  in  vain  for  her, 

The  lovely  Pleiad  gone. 

But  men  watch  not  the  stars  always, 
And  though  the  Pleiad  may  be  lost, 

Yet  still  there  are  a  thousand  rays 
From  the  surrounding  host. 

And  woman,  long  before  the  grave 
Closes  above  her  dreamless  rest, 

May  be  man's  empress  and  his  slave, 
And  his  discarded  jest. 

Still  may  that  Pleiad  shine  afar, 
But,  pleasure-led  o'er  summer  seas, 

Who  dwells  upon  a  single  star 
Amid  the  Pleiades  ? 

Man  courts  the  constellations  bright, 
That  beam  upon  his  bounding  bark, 

Nor  thinks  upon  the  left,  lone  light, 
Till  all  above  is  dark. 


190 


FREDERICK    W.    THOMAS. 


[1830-40. 


Then,  when  he  knows  nor  land  nor  main, 
And  darkly  is  his  frail  bark  toss'd, 

He  courts  the  separate  star  in  vain, 
And  mourns  the  Pleiad  lost. 


'TIS    SAID    THAT    ABSENCE    CONQUERS 
LOVE. 

'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love ! 

But,  oh  !  believe  it  not; 
I've  tried,  alas !  its  power  to  prove, 

But  thou  art  not  forgot. 
Lady,  though  fate  has  bid  us  part, 

Yet  still  thou  art  as  dear — 
As  fixed  in  this  devoted  heart 

As  when  I  clasp'd  thee  here. 

I  plunge  into  the  busy  crowd, 

And  smile  to  hear  thy  name  ; 
And  yet,  as  if  I  thought  aloud, 

They  know  me  still  the  same; 
And  when  the  wine-cup  passes  round, 

I  toast  some  other  Fair ; — 
But  when  I  ask  my  heart  the  sound, 

Thy  name  is  echoed  there. 

And  when  some  other  name  I  learn, 

And  try  to  whisper  love, 
Still  will  my  heart  to  thee  return, 

Like  the  returning  dove. 
In  vain  !  I  never  can  forget, 

And  would  not  be  forgot ; 
For  I  must  bear  the  same  regret, 

Whate'er  may  be  my  lot. 

E'en  as  the  wounded  bird  will  seek 

Its  favorite  bower  to  die, 
So,  lady  !  I  would  hear  thee  speak, 

And  yield  my  parting  sigh. 
'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love ! 

But,  oh  !  believe  it  not ; 
I've  tried,  alas !  its  power  to  prove, 

But  thou  art  not  forgot. 


WHEN  THOU  WERT  TRUE. 

WHEN  thou  wert  true,  when  thou  wert  true, 
My  heart  did  thy  impression  take, 

As  do  the  depths,  when  skies  are  blue, 
Of  some  wood-girt  and  quiet  lake, 

The  image  of  the  moon,  which  gives 

The  calmness  in  whose  light  she  lives. 

But  when  doubt  came,  my  troubled  breast 
Was  like  that  lake  when   rude   winds 
blow; 

Her  image  then,  though  still  impress'd, 
Beams  brokenly,  in  ebb  and  How, 

Until  the  storm  obscures  her  light, 

And  reigns  the  ebon-visaged  night. 

Again  that  changing  rnoon  will  shine, 
When  storms  are  o'er,  within  the  lake, 

Which,  like  that  wayward  heart  of  thine, 
Can  any  other  image  take. 

Mine,  graven  like  memorial  stone, 

Is  now  a  memory  alone. 


THY  PORTRAIT. 

I'VE  hung  thy  portrait  on  my  wall, 
And,  as  I  move  about  my  room, 

Still  will  thy  bright  eyes  on  me  fall, 
And  seem  to  light  the  gloom. 

Thus  is  thy  gentle  spirit's  spell 
Upon  me  wheresoe'er  I  rove, 

And  thus  beneath  it  do  I  dwell 
With  an  adoring  love. 


UNITED  hearts  have  made  United  States  I 
What  could  a  single,  separate  State  have 

done 
Without  the  arms  of  her  confederates  ? 

hey  stand  united,  but  divided  fall — 
Twas  Union  that  gave  Liberty  to  all. 


JOHN    H.  BRYANT. 


JOHN  HOWARD  BRYANT  was  born  on  the  twenty -second  day  of  July,  1807,  at 
Cummington,  Massachusetts.  He  applied  himself  in  early  life  with  much  diligence  to 
mathematical  studies  and  to  the  investigation  of  natural  science,  manifesting  at  the 
same  time  not  only  a  love  for  poetical  literature,  but  a  promising  capacity  for  the 
writing  of  rhymes.  His  father,  a  man  of  decided  character,  as  well  as  literary  cul 
ture,  took  pride  in  evidences  of  poetic  ability  which  his  sons  early  exhibited.  He 
taught  them  the  difference  between  true  poetic  feeling  and  the  mere  rhyming  faculty, 
and  they  repaid  his  good  care  by  producing,  in  boyhood,  poems  which  have  been  pre 
served  for  their  excellence.  At  fourteen  years  of  age  (1809)  William  Cullen  pub 
lished  "  The  Embargo  and  other  Poems,"  at  Boston.  •  "  Thanatopsis  "  was  written 
when  he  was  nineteen  years  old.  John  Howard's  first  published  poem  appeared  in 
1826,  in  the  United  States  Review,  of  which  his  brother,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  was 
one  of  the  editors.  It  was  entitled  "  My  Native  Village,"  and  it  elicited  much  hearty 
encouragement  for  the  young  poet,  both  in  New  York  city  and  in  Boston — in  which 
cities  the  Review  was  simultaneously  published. 

Having  been  seized  with  the  "  Western  fever,"  Mr.  Bryant  became  a  "  squatter  " 
in  Bureau  county,  Illinois,  in  1831.  When  the  public  lands  of  that  part  of  the  State 
came  into  market,  he  purchased  a  large  farm,  took  to  himself  a  wife,  and  has  ever 
since  been  a  resident  of  the  county  in  which  he  was  an  "  early  settler." 

Mr.  Bryant  has  been  honored  with  many  tokens  of  public  confidence  by  the  people 
among  whom  he  resides.  In  1842,  he  was  elected  a  Representative  to  the  State  Leg 
islature,  from  Bureau  county,  and,  in  1852,  was  the  candidate  for  Congress  of  the 
Freesoil  party  in  the  third  Congressional  District  of  Illinois.  He  has  held  several 
local  offices  of  trust,  and  was,  in  1858,  a  second  time  State  Representative  from  Bureau 
county. 

Mr.  Bryant,  though  an  active  and  successful  business  man,  conducting  with  energy 
varied  agricultural  affairs,  as  well  as  taking  lively  interest  in  public  concerns,  has 
preserved  the  poetic  taste  and  faculty,  and  redeemed  the  promise  which  his  first 
production  gave.  In  the  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  Rufus  Wilmot  Gris- 
wold  said : 

His  poems  ....  have  the  same  general  characteristics  as  those  of  his  brother.  He  is  a 
lover  of  nature,  and  describes  minutely  and  effectively.  To  him  the  wind  and  the  stream  are  ever 
musical,  and  the  forests  and  prairies  clothed  in  beauty.  His  versification  is  easy  and  correct,  and 
his  writings  show  him  to  be  a  man  of  taste  and  kindly  feelings,  and  to  have  a  mind  stored  with 
the  btst  learning. 

In  1855,  Mr.  Bryant  collected  his  poems  in  a  duodecimo  volume  of  ninety-three 
pages,  which  was  published  by  D.  Appleton  and  Company,  New  York. 


(  191) 


192 


JOHN    H.   BRYANT. 


[1830-40. 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

THAT  soft,  autumnal  time 
Is  gone,  that  sheds,  upon  the  naked  scene, 
Charms  only  known  in  this  our  northern 
clime — 

Bright  seasons,  far  between. 

The  woodland  foliage  now 
Is  gathered  by  the  wild  November  blast ; 
E'en    the    thick   leaves    upon  the    oaken 
bough 

Are  fallen,  to  the  last. 

The  mighty  vines,  that  round 
The  forest  trunks  their  slender  branches 

bind, 
Their  crimson  foliage  shaken  to  the  ground, 

Swing  naked  to  the  wind. 

Some  living  green  remains 
By  the  clear  brook  that  shines  along  the 

lawn ; 

But  the  sear  grass  stands  white  o'er  all  the 
plains, 

And  the  bright  flowers  are  gone. 

But  these,  these  are  thy  charms — 
Mild  airs  and  tempered  light  upon  the  lea ; 
And  the  year  holds  no  time  within  his  arms 

That  doth  resemble  thee. 

The  sunny  noon  is  thine, 
Soft,  golden,  noiseless  as  the  dead  of  night; 
And  hues  that  in  the  flushed  horizon  shine 

At  eve  and  early  light. 

The  year's  last,  loveliest  smile, 
Thou  corn's!  to  fill  with  hope  the  human 

heart, 
And  strengthen  it  to  bear  the  storms  awhile, 

Till  winter's  frowns  depart. 

O'er  the  wide  plains,  that  lie 
A  desolate  scene,  the  fires  of  autumn  spread, 
And  on  the  blue  walls  of  the  starry  sky, 

A  strange  wild  glimmer  shed. 


Far  in  a  sheltered  nook 
I've  met,  in  these  calm  days,  a  smiling 

flower, 
A  lonely  aster,  trembling  by  a  brook, 

At  noon's  warm  quiet  hour : 

And  something  told  my  mind, 
That,  should  old  age  to  childhood  call  me 

back, 

Some  sunny  days  and  flowers  I  still  might 
find 

Along  life's  weary  track. 


ON  A  FOUNTAIN  IN  A  FOREST. 

THREE  hundred  years  are  scarcely  gone, 
Since,  to  the  New  World's  virgin  shore, 

Crowds  of  rude  men  were  pressing  on 
To  range  its  boundless  regions  o'er. 

Some  bore  the  sword  in  bloody  hands, 
And  sacked  its  helpless  towns  for  spoil ; 

Some  searched  for  gold  the  river's  sands, 
Or  trenched  the  mountain's  stubborn  soil. 

And  some  with  higher  purpose  sought, 
Through  forests  wild  and  wastes  uncouth, 

Sought  with  long  toil,  yet  found  it  not, — 
The  fountain  of  eternal  youth  ! 

They  said  in  some  green  valley,  where 
The  foot  of  man  had  never  trod, 

There  gushed  a  fountain  bright  and  fair, 
Up  from  the  ever-verdant  sod. 

There  they  who  drank  should  never  know 
Age,  with  its  weakness,  pain,  and  gloom; 

And  from  its  brink  the  old  should  go 
With  youth's  light  step  and  radiant  bloom. 

Is  not  this  fount,  so  pure  and  sweet, 
Whose  stainless  current  ripples  o'er 

The  fringe  of  blossoms  at  my  feet, 

The  same  those  pilgrims  sought  of  yore? 


1830-40.] 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


193 


How  brightly  leap,  'mid  glittering  sands, 
The  living  waters  from  below  ; 

Oh,  let  me  dip  these  lean,  brown  hands, 
Drink  deep,  and  bathe  this  wrinkled  brow ; 

And  feel,  through  every  shrunken  vein, 
The  warm,  red  stream  flow  swift  and  free ; 

Feel,  waking  in  my  heart  again 

Youth's  brightest  hopes,  youth's  wildest 
glee. 

'Tis  vain,  for  still  the  life-blood  plays 
With  sluggish  course   through   all   my 
frame ; 

The  mirror  of  the  pool  betrays 
My  wrinkled  visage  still  the  same. 

And  the  sad  spirit  questions  still — 

Must  this  warm  frame — these  limbs,  that 
yield 

To  each  light  motion  of  the  will — 
Lie  with  the  dull  clods  of  the  field  ? 

Has  nature  no  renewing  power 
To  drive  the  frost  of  age  away  ? 

Has  earth  no  fount,  or  herb,  or  flower, 
Which  man  may  taste  and  live  for  aye  ? 

Alas !  for  that  unchanging  state 

Of  youth  and  strength,  in  vain  we  yearn ; 
And  only  after  death's  dark  gate 

Is  reached  and  passed,  can  youth  return. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD. 

THERE  is  a  lovely  little  bird,  that  comes 
When  the  first  wild-flowers  open  in  the  glen, 
And  sings  all  summer  in  the  leafy  wood. 
First,  in  the  opening  spring,  his  mellow 

voice 
Swells  from  the  shrubbery  by  our  dwelling 

side; 

But  when  the  robin  and  the  swallow  come, 
He  hies  him  from  their  presence  to  the  depth 


Of  some  old  mossy  forest,  where  he  sings 
Sweet  songs,  to  cheer  us  all  the  summer 

long. 
This  is  the  blue-bird,  loveliest  of  our 

clime : 
No  song  that  haunts  the  woodland  charms 

like  his — 

Sweetest,  far  sweetest,  is  his  voice  to  me, 
At  the  soft  hour  of  twilight,  when  the  world 
Has  hushed  her  din  of  voices,  and  her  sons 
Are  gathering  to  their  slumbers  from  their 

toil, 

As  all  are  gathered  to  the  grave  at  last. 
I  sit  whole  hours  upon  a  moss-grown  stone, 
In  some  sequestered  spot,  and  hear  his  lay, 
Unmindful  of  the  things  that  near  me  pass, 
Till  all  at  once,  as  the  dim  shades  of  night 
Fall  thicker  on  the  lessening  landscape 

round, 
He  ceases,  and  my  reverie  is  broke. 

One  summer  eve,  at  twilight's  quiet  hour, 
After  a  sultry  day,  spent  at  my  books, 
I  slipped  forth  from  my  study,  to  enjoy 
The  cool  of  evening.     Leaning  on  my  arm 
Was  one  I  loved,  a  girl  of  gentle  mould : 
She  had  sweet  eyes,  and  lips  the  haunt  of 

smiles, 
And  long  dark  locks,  that  hung  in  native 

curls 

Around  her  snowy  bosom.    The  light  wind 
Tossed  them  aside,  to  kiss  her  lily  neck, 
Gently,  as   he    were   conscious   what   he 

touched. 
Her  step  was  light,  light  as  the  breeze  that 

fanned 
Her  blushing  cheek ;  gay  was  her  heart, 

for  youth 

And  innocence  are  ever  gay ;  her  form 
Was  stately  as  an  angel's,  and  her  brow 
White  as  the  mountain  snow;  her  voice 

was  sweet, 

Sweet  as  the  chiding  of  the  brook  that  plays 
Along  its  pebbly  channel.     Ruddy  clouds 
Were  gathered  east  and  south,  high  piled 

and  seemed 
Like  ruby  temples  in  a  sapphire  sky. 


13 


194 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


[1830-40. 


The  West  was  bright  with  daylight  still :  no 
moon, 

No  stars  were  seen,  save  the  bright  star  of 

love, 
That  sailed  alone  in  heaven.    'Twas  in  this 

walk, 

We  heard  the  blue-bird  in  a  leafy  wood 
Near  to  the  wayside,  and  we  sat  us  down 
Upon  a  mossy  bank,  to  list  awhile 
To  that  sweet  song.    Peaceful  before  us  lay 
Woodlands,  and  orchards  white  with  ver 
nal  bloom, 
And    flowering    shrubs    encircling   happy 

homes, 
And  broad  green  meads  with  wild-flowers 

sprinkled  o'er : 
The  scent  of  these  came  on  the  gentle  wind, 
Sweet  as  the  spicy  breath  of  Araby. 
The  smoke  above  the  clustering  roofs  curled 

blue 
On  the  still   air;   the  shout   of   running 

streams 

Came  from  a  leafy  thicket  by  our  side ; 
And  that  lone  blue-bird  in  the  wood  abore, 
Singing  his  evening  hymn,  perfected  all. 
The  hour,  the  season,  sounds,  and  scenery, 
Mingling  like  these,  and  sweetly  pleasing  all, 
Made  the  full  heart  o'erflow.    That  maiden 

wept — 
Even  at  the  sweetness  of  that  song  she 

wept. 
How  sweet  the  tears  shed  by  such  eyes  for 

joy! 


THE  BETTER  PART. 

WHY  should  we  toil  for  hoarded  gain, 
Or  waste  in  strife  our  nobler  powers, 

Or  follow  Pleasure's  glittering  train  ? 
O,  let  a  happier  choice  be  ours. 

Death  shall  unnerve  the  arm  of  power, 
Unclasp  the  firmest  grasp  on  gold, 

And  scatter  wide  in  one  brief  hour 
The  treasured  heaps  of  wealth  untold. 


The  hero's  glory,  and  his  fame, 

Built  up  mid  crime,  and  blood,  and  tears, 
Are  but  a  transient  flash  of  flame 

Amid  the  eternal  night  of  years. 

He  whom  but  yesterday  we  saw 

Earth's  mightiest  prince,  is  gone  to-day ; 

All  systems,  creeds,  save  Truth's  great  law, 
Are  borne  along  and  swept  away. 

And  Fashion's  forms  and  gilded  show, 
Shall  vanish  with  the  fleeting  breath ; 

And  Pleasure's  votaries  shall  know 
Their  folly  at  the  gates  of  death. 

But  he  who  delves  for  buried  thought, 
And  seeks  with  care  for  hidden  truth, 

Shall  find  in  age,  unasked,  unbought, 
A  rich  reward  for  toil  in  youth. 

Aye  more, — away  beyond  life's  goal, 
Of  earnest  toil  each  weary  day 

Shall  light  the  pathway  of  the  soul 
Far  on  its  onward,  upward  way. 

Then  who  can  tell  how  wide  a  sphere 
Of  thought  and  deed  shall  be  his  lot, 

Who  treasured  truth  and  knowledge  here, 
And  doing  good,  himself  forgot? 


THE  VALLEY  BROOK. 

FRESH  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood 
A  rivulet  of  the  valley  came, 

And  glided  on  for  many  a  rood, 

Flushed  with  the  morning's  ruddy  flame. 

The  air  was  fresh  and  soft  and  sweet ; 

The  slopes  in  Spring's  new  verdure  lay; 
And  wet  with  dew-drops,  at  my  feet, 

Bloomed  the  young  violets  of  May. 

No  sound  of  busy  life  was  heard, 
Amid  those  pastures  lone  and  still, 

Save  the  faint  chirp  of  early  bird, 
Or  bleat  of  flocks  along  the  hill. 


1830-40.] 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


195 


I  traced  that  rivulet's  winding  way ; 

New  scenes  of  beauty  opened  round, 
Where  meads  of  brighter  verdure  lay, 

And  lovelier  blossoms  tinged  the  ground. 

"  Ah  !  happy  valley -stream,"  I  said, 

"  Calm  glides  thy  wave  amid  the  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  round  thy  path  is  shed, 
Through  all  the  joyous  summer  hours. 

"  Oh !  could  my  years,  like  thine,  be  passed 
In  some  remote  and  silent  glen, 

Where  I  might  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last, 
Far  from  the  bustling  haunts  of  men." 

But  what  new  echoes  greet  my  ear  ? 

The  village  school-boys'  merry  call ; 
And 'mid  the  village  hum  I  hear 

The  murmur  of  the  water-fall. 

I  looked ;  the  widening  vale  betrayed 
A  pool  that  shone  like  burnished  steel, 

Where  that  bright  valley-stream  was  stayed, 
To  turn  the  miller's  ponderous  wheel. 

Ah !  why  should  I,  I  thought  with  shame, 

Sigh  for  a  life  of  solitude, 
When  even  this  stream,  without  a  name, 

Is  laboring  for  the  common  good  ? 

No  longer  let  me  shun  my  part, 
Amid  the  busy  scenes  of  life ; 

But,  with  a  warm  and  generous  heart, 
Press  onward  in  the  glorious  strife. 


THE  BLIND  RESTORED  TO  SIGHT. 

WHEN  the  Great  Master  spoke, 
He  touched  his  withered  eyes, 

And  at  one  gleam  upon  him  broke 
The  glad  earth  and  the  skies. 

And  he  saw  the  city's  walls, 
And  king's  and  prophet's  tomb, 


And  mighty  arches  and  vaulted  halls 
And  the  temple's  lofty  dome. 

He  looked  on  the  river's  flood 
And  the  flash  of  mountain  rills, 

And  the  gentle  wave  of  the  palms  that  stood 
Upon  Judea's  hills. 

He  saw,  on  heights  and  plains, 

Creatures  of  every  race ; 
But  a  mighty  thrill  ran  through  his  veins 

When  he  met  the  human  face. 

And  his  virgin  sight  beheld 

The  ruddy  glow  of  even, 
And  the  thousand  shining  orbs  that  filled 

The  azure  depths  of  heaven. 

Though  woman's  voice  before 
Had  cheered  his  gloomy  night, 

To  see  the  angel  form  she  wore 
Made  deeper  the  delight. 

And  his  heart,  at  daylight's  close, 
For  the  bright  world  where  he  trod, 

And  when  the  yellow  morning  rose, 
Gave  speechless  thanks  to  God. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  SONG. 

AWAY,  away  we  haste 

Vast  plains  and  mountains  o'er, 
To  the  glorious  land  of  the  distant  West, 

By  the  broad  Pacific's  shore. 

Onward,  with  toilsome  pace, 

O'er  the  desert  vast  and  dim, 
From  morn  till  the  sun  goes  down  to  his 
place 

At  the  far  horizon's  rim. 

By  the  wild  Missouri's  side — 

By  the  lonely  Platte  we  go, 
That  brings  its  cold  and  turbid  tide 

From  far-off  cliffs  of  snow. 


196 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


[1830-40. 


The  red  deer  in  the  shade 

Shall  fall  before  our  aim, 
And  at  eventide  shall  our  feast  be  made 

From  the  flesh  of  the  bison's  frame. 

And  when  our  feast  is  done, 

And  the  twilight  sinks  away, 
We  will  talk  of  the  deeds  of  the  days  that 
are  gone, 

And  the  friends  that  are  far  away. 

We  heed  not  the  burning  sun, 

Nor  the  plain  winds  wild  and  bleak, 

And  the  driving  rain  will  beat  in  vain 
On  the  emigrant's  hardened  cheek. 

Still  onward,  day  by  day, 

O'er  the  vast  and  desolate  plain, 

With  resolute  hearts  we  plod  our  way, 
Till  our  distant  home  we  gain. 

And  when  at  last  we  stand 

On  the  wild  Nevada's  side, 
We'll  look  afar  o'er  the  lovely  land 

And  the  heaving  ocean's  tide. 

Of  the  past  we'll  think  no  more, 
When  our  journey's  end  is  won, 

And  we'll  build  our  house  by  the  rocky 

shore 
Of  the  mighty  Oregon. 


SENATCHWINE'S  GRAVE.* 

HE  sleeps  beneath  the  spreading  shade, 
Where  woods  and  wide  savannas  meet, 

Where  sloping  hills  around  have  made 
A  quiet  valley,  green  and  sweet. 


*  Twelve  or  fifteen  years  since,  Senatchwine  was  an  em 
inent  chief  of  the  tribe  of  Pottawatomies,  in  Illinois, 
enjoying  more  influence  and  a  greater  reputation  for  tal 
ents  than  any  other.  The  Indian  traders,  who  knew  him 
well,  say  that  he  was  a  truly  great  man,  an  orator,  and  a 
warrior.  He  died  at  an  advanced  age,  in  the  year  1830, 
and  was  buried  by  a  small  stream  which  bears  his  name, 
and  which  runs  through  the  south-eastern  part  of  Bureau 
county.  His  hunting-grounds  are  in  that  vicinity.  The 
circumstance  alluded  to  in  the  line — 


A  stream  that  bears  his  name  and  flows 
In  glimmering  gushes  from  the  West, 

Makes  a  light  murmur  as  it  goes 
Beside  his  lonely  place  of  rest. 

And  here  the  silken  blue-grass  springs, 
Low  bending  with  the  morning  dew ; 

The  red-bird  in  the  thicket  sings, 
And  blossoms  nod  of  various  hue. 

Oh,  spare  his  rest !  oh,  level  not 

The  trees  whose  boughs  above  it  play, 

Nor    break    the    turf    that    clothes    the 

spot, 
Nor  clog  the  rivulet's  winding  way. 

For  he  was  of  unblenching  eye, 
Honored  in  youth,  revered  in  age, 

Of  princely  port  and  bearing  high, 
And  brave,  and  eloquent,  and  sage. 

Ah !  scorn  not  that  a  tawny  skin 

Wrapped  his  strong  limbs   and   ample 
breast : 

A  noble  soul  was  throned  within, 
As  the  pale  Saxon  e'er  possessed. 

Beyond  the  broad  Atlantic  deep, 
In  mausoleums  rich  and  vast, 

Earth's  early  kings  and  heroes  sleep, 
Waiting  the  angel's  trumpet-blast. 

As  proud  in  form  and  mien  was  he 
Who  sleeps  beneath  this  verdant  sod, 

And  shadowed  forth  as  gloriously 
The  image  of  the  eternal  God. 

Theirs  is  the  monumental  pile, 
With  lofty  titles  graved  on  stone, 


"  And  here  the  silken  blue-grass  springs," — 
is  familar  to  the  western  people,  who  have  a  proverbial 
saying  that  the  blue-grass  springs  up  wherever  an  Indian 
foot  has  stepped.  Though  this  may  not  be  literally  true, 
yet  it  is  certain  that  the  blue-grass  is  always  found  grow 
ing  where  the  Indians  have  encamped,  though  it  might 
have  been  only  for  a  few  days.  This  kind  of  grass  makes 
a  soft  and  rich  turf,  thick  with  blades,  in  which  respect 
it  is  very  different  from  the  common  coarse  grass  of  the 
prairies.  [  This  note  was  written  in  1845.] 


1830-40.] 


JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 


197 


The  vaulted  roof,  the  fretted  aisle — 
He  sleeps  unhonored  and  alone. 

A  scene  he  loved  around  him  lies, 

These  blooming  plains  outspreading  far, 

River,  and  vale,  and  boundless  skies, 
With  sun,  and  cloud,  and  shining  star. 

He  knew  each  pathway  through  the  wood, 
Each  dell  unwarmed  by  sunshine's  gleam, 

Where  the  brown  pheasant  led  her  brood, 
Or  wild  deer  came  to  drink  the  stream. 

Oft  hath  he  gazed  from  yonder  height, 
When  pausing 'mid  the  chase  alone, 

On  the  fair  realms  beneath  his  sight, 
And  proudly  called  them  all  his  own. 

Then  leave  him  still  this  little  nook, 
Ye  who  have  grasped  his  wide  domain, 

The  trees,  the  flowers,  the  grass,  the  brook, 
Nor  stir  his  slumbering  dust  again. 


Such  was  the  time  when,  on  the  landscape 

brown, 
Through  a  December  air  the  snows  came 

down. 

The  morning  came,  the  dreary  morn  at  last, 
And  showed  the  whitened  waste.     The 
shivering  herd 

Lowed  on  the  hoary  meadow-ground,  and 

fast 

Fell  the  light  flakes  upon  the  earth  un 
stirred  ; 

The  forest  firs  with  glittering  snows  o'er- 
laid, 

Stood  like  hoar  priests  in  robes  of  white 
arrayed. 


WINTER. 

THE  day  had  been  a  calm  and  sunny  day, 
And  tinged  with  amber  was  the  sky  at 

even; 
The   fleecy  clouds   at   length   had   rolled 

away, 
And    lay   in    furrows   on   the   eastern 

heaven ; — 
The  moon  arose  and  shed  a  glimmering 

ray, 
And  round  her  orb  a  misty  circle  lay. 

The  hoar-frost  glittered  on  the  naked  heath, 
The  roar  of  distant  winds  was  loud  and 

deep, 
The  dry  leaves  rustled   in  each  passing 

breath, 

And   the  gay  world  was  lost  in  quiet 
sleep. 


UPWARD!  ONWARD! 

UPWARD,  onward  is  our  watchword ; 

Though  the  winds  blow  good  or  ill, 
Though  the  sky  be  fair  or  stormy, 

These  shall  be  our  watchwords  still. 

Upward,  onward,  in  the  battle 

Waged  for  freedom  and  the  right, 

Never  resting,  never  weary, 
Till  a  victory  crowns  the  fight. 

Upward,  onward,  pressing  forward 
Till  each  bondman's  chains  shall  fall, 

Till  the  flag  that  floats  above  us, 
Liberty  proclaims  to  all. 

Waking  every  morn  to  duty, 
Ere  its  hours  shall  pass  away, 

Let  some  act  of  love  or  mercy 
Crown  the  labors  of  the  day. 

Lo  !  a  better  day  is  coming, 
Brighter  prospects  ope  before ; 

Spread  your  banner  to  the  breezes — 
Upward,  onward,  evermore ! 


ANNA  P.  DINNIES. 


ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES,  whose  name  deservedly  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  our 
Western  female  poets,  both  in  point  of  time  and  excellence,  is  a  daughter  of  Judge 
Shackleford  of  South  Carolina,  in  which  State  she  was  born.  No  pains  were  spared 
in  her  early  training,  and  she  completed  her  education  at  a  Seminary  of  high  grade  in 
the  city  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  under  the  care  of  David  Ramsey,  the  histo 
rian.  At  an  early  age  she  gave  indications  of  that  literary  ability  which  has  since 
been  so  amply  realized. 

In  1826  she  became  engaged  in  a  literary  correspondence  with  John  C.  Dinnies,  of 
St.  Louis,  Missouri.  This  exchange  of  views  on  matters  of  literature  and  taste 
ripened  into  mutual  affection,  and  resulted  in  a  matrimonial  engagement,  although  the 
parties  met  for  the  first  time  only  one  week  before  their  marriage.  That  this  roman 
tic  marriage,  contrary  to  the  usual  course  of  such,  has  yielded  a  happy  life,  no  one 
can  question  who  is  acquainted  with  her  poems — they  are  inspired  not  only  by  affec 
tion,  but  unalloyed  happiness  also.  Upon  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Dinnies  came  to  the 
West  to  reside  with  her  husband  in  St.  Louis,  but  for  some  years  past  her  home  has 
been  in  New  Orleans. 

Mrs.  Dinnies's  poetical  career  has  been  almost  entirely  identified  with  the  West. 
Her  earlier  poems  were  made  the  common  property  of  her  adopted  home,  by  being 
extensively  copied  in  the  newspapers  throughout  the  West  and  South.  They  were 
published  in  the  Illinois  Monthly,  over  the  signature  of  MOINA,  and  gained  the  author 
a  reputation  entirely  on  their  own  merits.  In  1846,  she  published  an  illustrated 
volume  entitled  "The  Floral  Year."  It  contains  one  hundred  poems  arranged  in 
twelve  groups — twelve  bouquets  of  flowers  gathered  in  the  different  months  of  the 
year.  Since  the  publication  of  this  volume  we  have  had  but  little  from  her  pen,  nor 
are  we  informed  whether  she  is  now  engaged  in  any  literary  labors. 

Mrs.  Dinnies's  writings  are  not  marked  by  that  exuberance  of  fancy  and  ornament 
which  is  often  the  chief  characteristic  and  charm  of  her  sex,  but  they  are  so  full  of 
pure  home  feeling  and  tenderness  that  we  prize  them  much  more  than  if  they  were 
mere  products  of  the  intellect.  Her  finest  poems  are  those  in  which  she  portrays  the 
domestic  affections.  She  never  fails  in  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  feeling,  which 
justly  entitles  her  to  a  place  among  the  most  elegant  poets  in  our  country. 

In  the  Hesperian  for  April,  1839,  William  D.  Gallagher,  of  her  poems  "Wedded 
Love"  and  "The  Wife,"  said: 

They  gushed  warm  and  glowing  from  the  human  heart— a  deep  which  calleth  unto  the  deep  of 
another  century  as  well  as  to  that  of  its  own  day—and  they  are  as  green  and  beautiful  and  touch 
ing  now,  as  when  they  first  sparkled  in  the  light— nay,  more  so,  for  that  which  cometh  of  the  True 
reveals  itself  fully  only  in  the  lapse  of  time. 

(  198) 


1830-40.] 


ANNA    P.    DINNIES. 


199 


MY  HUSBAND'S  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

THOU  strange,  unbidden  guest !  from  whence 

Thus  early  hast  them  come  ? 
And  wherefore  ?     Rude  intruder,  hence ! 

And  seek  some  fitter  home  ! 
These  rich  young  locks  are  all  too  dear, — 
Indeed,  thou  must  not  linger  here ! 

Go !  take  thy  sober  aspect  where 

The  youthful  cheek  is  fading, 
Or  find  some  furrovv'd  brow,  which  care 

And  passion  have  been  shading ; 
And  add  thy  sad,  malignant  trace, 
To  mar  the  aged  or  anguish'd  face ! 

Thou  wilt  not  go  ?  then  answer  me, 
And  tell  what  brought  thee  here ! 

Not  one  of  all  thy  tribe  I  see 
Beside  thyself  appear, 

And  through  these  bright  and  clustering 
curls 

Thou  shinest,  a  tiny  thread  of  pearls. 

Thou  art  a  moralist !  ah,  well ! 

And  comest  from  Wisdom's  land, 
A  few  sage  axioms  just  to  tell  ? 

Well !  well !   I  understand : — 
Old  Truth  has  sent  thee.  here  to  bear 
The  maxims  which  we  fain  must  hear. 

And  now,  as  I  observe  thee  nearer, 
Thou'rt  pretty — very  pretty — quite 

As  glossy  and  as  fair — nay,  fairer 
Than  these,  but  not  so  bright ; 

And  since  thou  came  Truth's  messenger, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  and  speak  of  her. 

She  says  thou  art  a  herald,  sent 
In  kind  and  friendly  warning, 

To  mix  with  locks  by  Beauty  blent, 
(The  fair  young  brow  adorning), 

And  'midst  their  wild  luxuriance  taught 

To  show  thyself,  and  waken  thought. 

That  thought,  which  to  the  dreamer  preaches 
A  lesson  stern  as  true, 


That  all  things  pass  away,  and  teaches 

How  youth  must  vanish  too ! 
And  thou  wert  sent  to  rouse  anew 
This  thought,   whene'er  thou  meet'st  the 
view. 

And  comes  there  not  a  whispering  sound, 
A  low,  faint,  murmuring  breath, 

Which,  as  thou  movest,  floats  around 
Like  echoes  in  their  death  ? 

"Time   onward  sweeps,  youth  flies,  pre 
pare  " — 

Such  is  thine  errand,  First  Gray  Hair. 


WEDDED  LOVE. 

COME,  rouse  thee,  dearest ! — 'tis  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all, 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills ; 
And,  with  their  gloomy  shades,  conceal 
The  land-marks  Hope  would  else  reveal. 

Come,  rouse,  thee,  now — I  know  thy  mind, 

And  would  its  strength  awaken  ; 
Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  thus  shaken  ! 
But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 
And  be  what  heaven  intended  thee ; 
Throw   from  thy  thoughts  this  wearying 

weight, 

And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great : 
I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 
The  angry  storms  of  earthly  woe. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 
Which  warms  thee  into  life, 

Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control, 
Familiar  to  thy  Wife — 


200 


ANNA    P.    DINNIES. 


[1830-40. 


For  deemest  thou  she  had  stooped  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind  ? 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed,  with  its  Promethean  flame, 
The  shrine  that  sunk  her  so  to  shame. 

Then  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers : 
Shake  off  this  gloom — Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  that  lowers ; 
And  though  at  present  seems  so  far 
The  wished-for  goal — a  guiding  star, 
With  peaceful  ray,  would  light  thee  on, 
Until  its  utmost  bounds  be  won : 
That  quenchless  ray  thou'lt  ever  prove, 
In  fond,  undying,  Wedded  Love. 


THE  WIFE. 

I  COULD  have  stemm'd  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear : 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  Life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  "  alone." 

I  could — I  think  I  could  have  brook'd, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  look'd 

With  less  of  love  than  now ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own, 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  be  "alone." 

But  thus  to  see,  from  day  to  day, 
Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 

And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 
Unnumbered,  slowly,  meek; 


To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel,  I'll  be  "alone;"— 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As,  filled  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say, 

"Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer;" 
Nay,  dearest,  'tis  too  much — this  heart 

Must  break,  when  thou  art  gone ; 
It  must  not  be;  we  may  not  part; 

I  could  not  live  "  alone ! " 


UNTOLD  FEELINGS. 

WHERE  the  wizard-power  to  show 
What  may  cause  the  tear  to  flow — 
What  may  wake  the  passing  sigh, 
Pale  the  cheek,  and  dim  the  eye  ? 

There  are  chords  in  many  a  breast 
Too  sacred  to  be  rudely  press'd, 
Which  thrill  to  memory's  touch  alone, 
Telling  of  blissful  hours  by-gone ; 
A  silly  jest,  a  careless  word, 
A  simple  sound,  a  singing  bird, 
A  falling  leaf,  the  time  of  year, 
May  wake  the  sigh,  or  start  the  tear. 
Then  hallow'd  be  the  hidden  feeling, 
When  the  tear  is  softly  stealing ; 
Let  no  cold  observance  tell 
Where  the  limpid  offering  fell ; 
To  all  it  is  not  given  to  know 
The  balm  of  comfort  to  bestow ; 
Nor  all  have  power  to  understand 
Emotions  swelling  o'er  command. 
Mark  not  the  sigh,  then,  deep  as  low, 
Mark  not  the  marble  cheek  and  brow, 
But  let  the  tear  in  silence  flow 
O'er  still  remember'd  joy  or  woe — 
A  bless'd  relief,  in  mercy  given — 
A  balmy  fount,  whose  spring  is  Heaven. 


EDMUND   FLAGG. 


EDMUND  FLAGG  was  born  in  the  town  of  Wicasset,  Maine,  on  the  twenty-fourth 
day  of  November,  1815.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  in  the  class  of  1835, 
and  immediately  thereafter  emigrated,  with  his  mother  and  sister,  to  Louisville,  Ken 
tucky,  where  he  taught  the  classics  for  a  few  months  to  a  class  of  boys ;  but  having 
entered  into  an  arrangement  to  contribute  to  the  columns  of  the  Louisville  Journal, 
made  a  journey,  through  Illinois  and  Missouri,  and  wrote  a  series  of  letters,  which 
were,  in  1838,  published  in  two  volumes  by  Harper  and  Brothers,  in  New  York, 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Far  West." 

In  1837  and  1838,  Mr.  Flagg  read  law  at  St.  Louis,  with  Hamilton  Gamble,  after 
ward  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Missouri.  While  reading  law,  he  was,  for  a 
short  period,  editor  of  the  St.  Louis  Daily  Commercial  Bulletin.  In  the  early  part  of 
the  year  1839,  he  was  associated  with  George  D.  Prentice  in  the  management  of  the 
Louisville  News  Letter.  On  account  of  ill  health,  he  abandoned  the  News  Letter,  and 
commenced  the  practice  of  law  with  Sargent  S.  Prentiss,  at  Vicksburg,  Mississippi. 
But  in  the  year  1842  he  was  again  an  editor,  at  Marietta,  Ohio.  While  conducting 
the  Gazette  in  that  town,  he  wrote  two  novels,  "  Carrero.  or  the  Prime  Minister,"  and 
"  Francis  of  Valois  " — which  were  published  in  New  York.  Returning  to  St.  Louis 
in  1844,  Mr.  Flagg  became  the  editor  of  the  Evening  Gazette,  and  was  for  several 
years  "  Reporter  of  the  Courts  "  of  St.  Louis  county.  He  wrote  at  this  period  sev 
eral  dramas,  which  were  successfully  performed  at  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  St.  Louis, 
and  New  Orleans. 

In  1848,  Mr.  Flagg  was  appointed  Secretary  to  Edward  A.  Hannegan,  Minister  to 
Berlin.  He  spent  nearly  two  years  in  Europe.  On  his  return  to  the  United  States 
he  resumed  the  practice  of  law  at  St.  Louis,  but  in  1850  was  selected  by  President 
Fillmore  as  Consul  to  the  port  of  Venice.  In  that  "  City  of  the  Sea  "  he  remained 
two  years  and  then  returned  to  St.  Louis,  where  he  completed  a  work  begun  in  Europe 
— "Venice,  the  City  of  the  Sea" — published  in  New  York  in  1853,  in  two  illus 
trated  volumes.  It  comprises  a  history  of  that  celebrated  capital,  from  the  invasion 
by  Napoleon,  in  1797,  to  its  capitulation  to  Radetzsky,  after  the  siege  of  1848-9.  In 
1854,  Mr.  Flagg  contributed  sketches  on  the  West  to  "The  United  States  Illus 
trated,"  a  work  published  by  A.  Meyer,  New  York.  He  is  now  the  chief  clerk  of  a 
Commercial  Bureau  in  the  Department  of  State  at  Washington. 

Mr.  Flagg  is  entitled  to  honorable  rank  among  the  authors  of  America,  as  a  prose 
writer,  and  though  not  distinguished  as  a  poet,  has  climbed  high  enough  on  the  Par 
nassian  mount  to  be  fairly  entitled  to  respectful  consideration  among  the  Poets  of  the 
West.  His  metrical  compositions  were  chiefly  written  for  the  Louisville  Journal,  and 
the  News  Letter,  while  he  was  its  editor.  A  prominent  place  is  given  him  in  a  hand 
some  volume,  entitled  "  The  Native  Poets  of  Maine  " — edited  by  S.  Herbert  Lancey, 

and  published  at  Bangor  in  1854. 

(  201  ) 


202 


EDMUND    FLAGG. 


[1830-40. 


APPEARANCES. 

AH,  do  not  say  the  heart  is  light, 

And  free  from  every  care, 
Because  the  eye  beams  calm  and  bright, 

And  only  peace  is  there. 
Around  the  monumental  stone 

The  gayest  flowers  may  creep — 
The  breast  may  wither  chill  and  lone, 

Yet  smiles  the  brow  may  keep. 

Unseen — unknown — the  electric  dart 

Sleeps  in  the  rolling  cloud ; — 
So  sleeps  within  the  stricken  heart 

The  grief  it  most  would  shroud. 
The  sunniest  smile  may  often  glow 

Where  sorrows  gloomiest  lower ; — 
Upon  the  sky  will  hang  the  bow, 

Though  all  is  shade  and  shower. 

Soft  summer's  leaves  are  fresh  and  fair, 

But  not  so  bright  are  they, 
As  when  on  Autumn's  misty  air 

The  forest-rainbows  play. 
Fair  on  the  cheek  is  beauty's  blush, 

Where  rose  and  lily  meet ; 
And  yet  consumption's  hectic  flush, 

Though  sad,  is  far  more  sweet. 

'Tis  not — 'tis  not  the  clam'rous  groan  — 

The  querulous  complaint — 
The  gushing  tear — the  frequent  moan 

That  speaks  the  soul's  lament. 
Sorrow's  a  proud — a  lonely  thing, 

And  never  stoops  to  mourn ; — 
The  Spartan's  mantle  o'er  the  sting 

It  clasps,  and  bleeds  alone. 

There  oft  is  woe  which  never  weeps — 

Tears  which  are  never  shed ; — 
Deep  in  the  soul  their  fountain  sleeps, 

When  hope  and  joy  are  fled. 
Yet  who  would  ask  the  stagnant  breast, 

Which  chills  not — never  glows  ? 
Who  would  not  spurn  that  waveless  rest 

Which  neither  ebbs  nor  flows  ? 


Then  think  not,  though  the  brow  is  free 

From  shade  of  gloom  or  care, 
The  breast  is  as  a  summer  sea, 

And  happiness  dwells  there. 
Ah,  think  not,  though  the  seeming  glance 

Upon  the  cheek  may  play, 
And  on  the  lip  the  jest  may  dance, 

That  grief  is  far  away. 


THE  MAGNETIC  TELEGRAPH. 

SCIENCE, 

With  her  twin-sister,  Art,  hath  scaled 
th'  Empyrean  ! 

Science,  like  the  dread  angel  of  th'  Apoc 
alypse, 

Hath  destined  Space  and  Time  to  be  no 
more! 

From  the  immortal  mind  now  leaps  the 
thought, 

And,  yet  unspoken,  on  the  lightning's  wing 

Girdleth  the  globe  !     Away,  away  flasheth 

The  magic  line  of  thought  and  feeling ! 

Over  land,  o'er  sea,  o'er  mountain,  stream, 
and  vale. 

Through  forest  dense,  and  darkest  wilder 
ness, 

'Mid  storm  and  tempest,  fleets  the  electric 
spell ; 

Then  to  its  home,  through  earth's  deep  en 
trails,  speeds 

Backward  in  fiery  circuit  to  its  rest ; 

While  earth's  green  bosom  doth  itself  evolve 

Magnetic  flame  to  light  the  flashing  line ! 

No  more  the  viewless  couriers  of  the  winds 

Are  emblems  of  the  messengers  of  mind. 

The  speed  of  sound,  the  speed  of  light  sur 
passed, 

The  speed  of  thought  —  mind's  magnet 
ism — 

And  th'  omnipotent  power  of  Fancy's  flight, 

Alone  can  rival  the  electric  charm ! 


CHARLES  A.  JONES. 


ONE  of  the  least  known  of  Western  writers,  to  the  present  generation  of  readers, 
is  a  poet,  who,  in  1835,  gave  promise  of  much  activity  and  distinction  in  metrical 
literature.  He  had  then  written  his  name  high  in  the  newspapers ;  published  his 
volume,*  and  taken  his  first  literary  degree.  Between  the  years  1836  and  1839  he 
wrote  frequently  for  tfie  Cincinnati  Mirror,  and  in  1840  contributed  several  of  the 
poems  hereafter  quoted  for  the  Cincinnati  Message,  but  about  that  time  the  inexor 
able  law  of  bread-and-butter  necessity  drew  him  from  the  flowery  slopes  of  Parnassus 
to  the  dry  regions  of  Blackstone  and  the  bar.  After  he  began  the  practice  of  law 
he  touched  the  harp  but  seldom,  and  then  in  secret. 

Charles  A.  Jones  is  to  be  honored  above  the  generality  of  Western  writers,  because 
he  explored  extensively,  and  made  himself  well  acquainted  with  Western  character, 
and  in  the  West  found  the  theme  of  his  essay,  the  incident  of  his  story,  and  the  inspi 
ration  of  his  song.  His  principal  poem  is  a  stirring  narrative  of  the  exploits  of  the 
bold  outlaws,  who,  in  the  infancy  of  the  settlement  of  the  West,  had  their  common 
rendezvous  in  the  celebrated  Cave-in-Rock  on  the  Ohio.  The  subjects  of  many  of  his 
lesser  productions  are  the  rivers,  the  mounds,  the  Indian  heroes,  and  the  pioneers  of  the 
Mississippi  Valley. 

For  five  or  six  years  previous  to  his  admission  to  the  bar,  Mr.  Jones  wrote  a  great 
deal  for  the  newspapers  and  periodicals  of  the  West.  His  habits  of  composition  were 
extremely  rapid  and  careless,  however,  and  he  would  never  undergo  the  labor  of 
revision.  The  hasty  production  of  an  hour  was  sent  to  the  press  with  all  its  sins  upon 
its  head.  The  consequence  of  this  rapid  work,  and  quick  printing,  has  shown  itself, 
in  the  almost  total  oblivion  into  which  nearly  all  Mr.  Jones's  productions  have  sunk, 
though  many  of  them  contain  fine  thoughts,  beautifully  and  forcibly  expressed.  It 
would  be  easy  to  gather  many  flowers  in  the  broad  fields  of  what  he  wrote,  by  very 
hastily  running  over  them.  In  the  Western  Literary  Journal  of  1836,  is  a  poem  of 
several  hundred  lines,  probably  dashed  off  in  an  evening,  which  affords  several  worth 
culling.  I  content  myself  with  one.  The  poem  is  called  "  Marriage  a  la  Mode,"  and 
recounts  the  forced  union  of  a  lovely  poor  girl  to  a  rich  rake,  who  wastes  her  bloom, 
breaks  her  heart  and  becomes  estranged  from  her.  She  hopes  to  regain  his  affection ; 
but  the  poet  says  : 

"  Bear  back  the  lightning  to  its  cloud, 

Recall  the  rose-leaf's  vanished  hue, 
And  give  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud 

The  breath  of  life  he  lately  drew  ; 
Then  to  the  bosom  seek  to  bring 
The  love  that  once  has  taken  wing!" 

*  The  Outlaw  and  other  poems,  dedicated  to  Morgan  Neville.    Josiah  Drake,  publisher,  Cincinnati,  1835.   18mo  ,  72  pp. 

(  203  ) 


204  CHARLES    A.    JONES.  [1830-40. 

__ _ — , . 

This,  from  another  source,  though  less  striking  and  original,  is  worth  fathering: 

The  beautiful  grape  must  be  crush'd  before 

Can  be  gathered  its  glorious  wine  ; 
So  the  poet's  heart  must  be  wrung  to  its  core, 

Ere  his  song  can  be  divine. 
There  are  flowers  which  perfume  yield  not 

Till  their  leaves  have  been  rudely  press'd  ; 
So  the  poet's  worth  is  revealed  not 

Till  sorrow  hath  entered  his  breast. 

In  the  year  1839,  a  series  of  satirical  lyrics,  entitled  "Aristophanaea,"  appeared  in 
the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  which  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention.  The  edge  of  some 
of  them  was  very  sharp,  and  in  several  respects  many  of  them  were  well  done.  They 
were  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Jones,  a  fact  long  and  well  kept  concealed,  even  from  the 
editor.  He  wrote  another  series  of  poems  for  the  Gazette,  as  "Dick  Tinto,"  many  of 
which  had  merit 

Mr.  Jones  was  a  native  of  Philadelphia.  He  was  born  about  the  year  1815.  His 
parents  removed  to  Cincinnati  when  he  was  a  child.  For  several  years  previous  to 
1850  he  practiced  his  profession  in  New  Orleans,  but  returned  to  Cincinnati  in  1851, 
on  account  of  declining  health.  He  died  in  Mill  Creek  township,  Hamilton  county, 
July  fourth,  1851,  upon  the  old  Ludlow  Station,  of  pioneer  renown.  In  the  year  1843, 
Mr.  Jones  was  united  in  marriage  to  Charlotte,  daughter  of  James  C.  Ludlow,  of  the 
yicinity  of  Cincinnati,  who  survives  him  with  two  children,  the  issue  of  their  marriage. 

Cincinnati  and  its  environs  had  always  a  peculiar  charm  for  Mr.  Jones.  In  a  poem 
addressed  to  "  The  Queen  City,"  he  gave  expression  to  sentiments  which  had  an  abid 
ing  influence  on  his  mind — which  led  him  to  return  from  the  South  to  the  home  of  his 
youth,  when  warned  that  engrossing  business  cares  were  wearing  away  his  life : 

How  blest  is  he  whose  doom  it  is 

A  wanderer  to  roam, 
Who  even  in  memory  can  return 

To  such  a  lovely  home. 
Oh,  were  I  in  the  fairest  clime 

That  smiles  beneath  the  sky, 
Here  would  my  spirit  long  to  come — 

If  not  to  live,  to  die. 
As  yearns  the  weary  child  at  night 

To  gain  its  mother's  breast ; 
So,  weary  with  my  wanderings, 

Here  would  I  long  to  rest. 

Mr.  Jones  devoted  much  thought  and  labor,  in  the  later  years  of  his  life,  to  a  dramatic 
poem  called  "Ishmael."  It  has  never  been  published.  When  given  to  the  world  it 
will  establish  his  reputation  as  a  poet  of  high  merit.  It  is  quite  different,  not  only 
in  conception  and  execution,  but  also  in  mental  scope,  from  any  of  his  other  pro 
ductions. 


1830-40.] 


CHARLES    A.    JONES. 


205 


THE  PIONEERS. 

WHERE  are  the  hardy  yeomen 

Who  battled  for  this  land, 
And  trode  these  hoar  old  forests, 

A  brave  and  gallant  band  ? 
Oh,  know  ye  where  they  slumber 

No  monument  appears, 
For  Freedom's  pilgrims  to  draw  nigh, 

And  hallow  with  their  tears  ? 
Or  were  no  works  of  glory 

Done  in  the  olden  time  ? 
And  has  the  West  no  story 

Of  deathless  deeds  sublime? 

Go  ask  yon  shining  river, 

And  it  will  tell  a  tale 
Of  deeds  of  noble  daring, 

Will  make  thy  cheek  grow  pale . 
Go  ask  yon  smiling  valley, 

Whose  harvest  blooms  so  fair, 
'Twill  tell  thee  a  sad  story 

Of  the  brave  who  slumber  there  : 
Go  ask  yon  mountain,  rearing 

Its  forest  crest  so  high  ; 
Each  tree  upon  its  summit 

Has  seen  a  warrior  die. 

They  knew  no  dread  of  danger, 

When  rose  the  Indian's  yell ; 
Right  gallantly  they  struggled, 

Right  gallantly  they  fell ; 
From  Alleghany's  summit, 

To  the  farthest  western  shore, 
These  brave  men's  bones  are  lying 

Where  they  perished  in  their  gore ; 
And  not  a  single  monument 

Is  seen  in  all  the  land, 
In  honor  of  the  memory 

Of  that  heroic  band. 

Their  bones  were  left  to  whiten 
The  spot  where  they  were  slain, 

And  were  ye  now  to  seek  them, 
They  would  be  sought  in  vain. 


The  mountain  cat  has  feasted 

Upon  them  as  they  lay ; 
Long,  long  ago  they  mingled 

Again  with  other  clay : 
Their  very  names  are  dying, 

Unconsecrate  by  fame, 
In  oblivion  they  slumber, 

Our  glory  and  our  shame. 


THE  OLD  MOUND.* 

LONELY  and  sad  it  stands : 
The  trace  of  ruthless  hands 
Is  on  its  sides  and  summit,  and  around 
le  dwellings  of  the  white  man  pile  the 

ground ; 

And  curling  in  the  air, 
The  smoke  of  thrice  a  thousand  hearths  is 

there : 

Without,  all  speaks  of  life, — within, 
Deaf  to  the  city's  echoing  din, 
Sleep  well  the  tenants  of  that  silent  Mound, 
Their  names  forgot,  their  memories  unre- 
nown'd. 

Upon  its  top  I  tread, 

And  see  around  me  spread 
Temples  and  mansions,  and  the  hoary  hills, 
Bleak  with  the  labor  that  the  coffer  fills, 

But  mars  their  bloom  the  while, 
And  steals  from  nature's  face  its  joyous 
smile : 

And  here  and  there,  below, 

The  stream's  meandering  flow 
Breaks  on  the  view;  and  westward  in  the 

sky 
The  gorgeous  clouds  in  crimson  masses  lie. 

The  hammer's  clang  rings  out, 
Where  late  the  Indian's  shout 


*  In  the  western  part  of  Cincinnati  (demolished  years 
ago  by  a  Vandal  curiosity),  near  what  is  now  the  junction 
of  Fifth  and  Mound  streets. 


206 


CHARLES    A.    JONES. 


[1830-40. 


Startled  the  wild-fowl  from  its  sedgy  nest, 
And  broke   the  wild  deer's  and  the  pan 
ther's  rest. 

The  lordly  oaks  went  down 
Before  the  ax — the  cane-brake  is  a  town  : 
The  bark  canoe  no  more 
Glides  noiseless  from  the  shore  ; 
And,  sole  memorial  of  a  nation's  doom, 
Amid  the  works  of  art  rises  this  lonely 
tomb. 

It  too  must  pass  away  : 

Barbaric  hands  will  lay 
Its  holy  ruins  level  with  the  plain, 
And  rear  upon  its  site  some  goodly  fane. 

It  seemeth  to  upbraid 
The  white  man  for  the  ruin  he  has  made. 

And  soon  the  spade  and  mattock  must 

Invade  the  sleepers'  buried  dust, 
And  bare  their  bones  to  sacrilegious  eyes, 
And  send  them  forth  some  joke-collector's 
prize. 


THE  DESERTED  FORGE. 

THE  sounds  are  gone  which  once  were 
heard  within  yon  lonely  hut, 

On  rusty  hinge  the  windows  hang,  the  cran 
nied  door  is  shut, 

And  round  about  upon  the  floor  lies  many 
a  rusty  shoe, 

And  broken  bars,  and  heaps  of  coal,  the 
lowly  forges  strew. 

No  more  is  heard  the  blacksmith's  voice 
engaged  in  merry  song, 

Which  to  the  passing  traveler  came,  at  in 
tervals  along ; 

As  all  the  day,  unceasingly,  he  plied  the 
hammer's  stroke, 

Which,  from  the  low  and  humble  roof,  con 
tinued  echoes  woke. 

The  merry  song,  and  hammer's  click,  are 

now  forever  o'er, 
His  voice  is  hushed,  his  arm  can  wield  the 

massy  sledge  no  more  ; 


Neglected  now  it  lies  along  the  heavy  oaken 

block, 
Which,  day  by  day,  and  night  by  night, 

was  shaken  by  its  shock. 
No  more  appeareth,  smooth  and  bright,  the 

polished  anvil's  face, 
For  over  all  decay  is  seen,  to  steal  with 

mournful  pace ; 
The  cobwebs  hang  upon  the  wall,  and  dust 

has  gathered  there ; 
The  spiders  now  will  reign  alone  within 

their  gloomy  lair. 

The  bellows'  sound  no  more  will  greet  the 
ear  of  passers  by, 

With  noise  as  of  a  distant  storm,  approach 
ing  swiftly  nigh  ; 

It  long  has  fallen  from  its  place,  its  frag 
ments  strew  the  floor, 

And  now  its  wreck  alone  can  tell  what  it 
has  been  before ; 

And  every  breeze  that  whistles  by,  ere 
sweeping  on  its  way, 

With  mournful  voice  proclaims  the  deeds 
Time  worketh  on  his  prey ; 

And  as  it  passes  o'er  the  wreck  around  the 
cabin  spread, 

Seems,  as  it  sought,  to  waken  sounds 
which  have  forever  fled. 

Nor  more  within  the  ready  trough  is  plunged 

the  hissing  steel, 
For  it  is  rotting  as  it  stands — its  sides  the 

tale  reveal ; 
And  round  about  to  every  spot  no  more 

the  cinders  fly, 
Which  sparkle  brightly  as  they  go,  and 

then  forever  die ; 
But  all  is  lone  and  dreary  there,  and  with 

the  hum  of  life 
The  forger's  now  deserted  shop  will  never 

more  be  rife ; 
And.  one  by  one,  the  rafters  round  will 

sink  by  slow  decay, 
Until  each  sign  and  vestige  there  shall  all 

have  passed  away. 


1830-40.] 


CHARLES    A.    JONES. 


207 


Peace  to  the  honest  blacksmith,  no  cares 

disturb  his  breast, 
And  till  the  day  of  doom  shall  come,  light 

be  his  lonely  rest ; 
His  ashes  lie  beneath  the  shade  of  yonder 

spreading  tree, 
And   o'er   the   sod   above   him   wave   its 

branches  mournfully; 
Hard  by  his  lowly  resting-place  his  vacant 

home  is  seen, 
But  never  more  for  him  will  be  the  things 

which  once  have  been ; 
And  sounds  which  were  to  him  more  sweet 

than  music's  soothing  strain, 
Upon  the  ear  that  loved  to  hear,  will  never 

fall  again. 


THE  CLOUDS. 

THE  clouds !  the  clouds !  how  beautiful 

They  move  upon  the  air, 
With  golden  wings  dyed  in  the  springs 

Of  light  the  planets  bear ; 
Now  onward  singly  sailing, 

Like  eagles,  in  the  breeze, 
Then  like  a  gallant  gathering 

Of  ships  upon  the  seas. 

How  glorious  are  their  changes  ! 

Now  in  pyramids  they  rise, 
And,  masses  piled  on  masses, 

They  tower  to  the  skies  : 
Now  rising  like  the  glaciers, 

Their  summits  white  as  snow, 
While  in  the  sun's  bright  blushings 

They  beautifully  glow. 

How  terrible  !  how  terrible, 
When,  gloomy,  thick  and  dark, 

They  form  their  squadrons  o'er  the  sea, 
Above  a  gallant  bark, 

And  hurl  their  lightning  arrows 
Deep  in  the  hissing  waves, 


While  'mid  the  mountain-barrows 
The  howling  tempest  raves: 

When  from  their  thronged  battalions 

The  thunders  wildly  sweep, 
And  from  the  summits  of  the  waves 

The  shrieking  echoes  leap ; 
And  mounting  on  the  tempest's  wings, 

The  billows  lash  the  sky, 
As  if  the  fiends  of  storm  and  wave 

Their  battles  waged  on  high. 

How  beautiful  their  changes, 

Like  visions  in  a  dream, 
When  on  their  rugged  surfaces 

The  moon's  bright  glories  gleam ; 
When  wooed  by  gentle  zephyrs, 

In  silver  flakes  they  glide, 
Like  flocks  of  sea-gulls  sporting 

Upon  the  wave  in  pride. 

Now  forming  into  castles, 

With  battlements  and  moats, 
While  from  the  towering  turrets 

A  crimson  banner  floats  ; 
Then  as  the  gentle  breeze  comes  by, 

The  fabric  melts  away, 
And  takes  the  form  of  legions 

In  battle's  stern  array. 

I  love  those  storm-girt  wanderers, 

In  darkness  and  in  gloom, 
When,  curtained  o'er  the  vaulted  sky, 

Their  thunders  shake  its  dome ; 
I  love  them,  when  their  brightness 

Is  borrowed  of  the  sun, 
When,  as  the  day  departeth, 

The  twilight  blush  comes  on. 

But  still  more  do  I  love  them 

For  the  gentle  rains  they  bring, 
That  summon  into  life  and  bloom 

The  buds  and  flowers  of  spring ; 
And  clothe  the  vales  and  mountains 

With  robes  of  living  green ; 
And  bid  the  sparkling  fountains 

Whisper  joy  to  every  scene. 


208 


CHARLES    A.   JONES. 


[1830-40. 


TECUMSEH. 

WHERE  rolls  the  dark  and  turbid  Thames 

His  consecrated  wave  along, 
Sleeps  one,  than  whose,  few  are  the  names 

More  worthy  of  the  lyre  and  song ; 
Yet  o'er  whose  spot  of  lone  repose 

No  pilgrim  eyes  are  seen  to  weep ; 
And  no  memorial  marble  throws 

Its  shadow  where  his  ashes  sleep. 

Stop,  stranger !  there  Tecumseh  lies ; 

Behold  the  lowly  resting-place 
Of  all  that  of  the  hero  dies ; 

The  Csesar— Tully,  of  his  race, 
Whose  arm  of  strength,  and  fiery  tongue, 

Have  won  him  an  immortal  name, 
And  from  the  mouths  of  millions  wrung 

Reluctant  tribute  to  his  fame. 

Stop — for  'tis  glory  claims  thy  tear ! 

True  worth  belongs  to  all  mankind  ; 
And  he  whose  ashes  slumber  here, 

Though  man  in  form  was  god  in  mind. 
"What  matter  he  was  not  like  thee, 

In  race  and  color ;  'tis  the  soul 
That  marks  man's  true  divinity ; 

Then  let  not  shame  thy  tears  control. 

Art  thou  a  patriot  ? — so  was  he ! 

His  breast  was  Freedom's  holiest  shrine ; 
And  as  thou  bendest  there  thy  knee, 

His  spirit  will  unite  with  thine. 
All  that  a  man  can  give  he  gave  ; 

His  life  :  the  country  of  his  sires 
From  the  oppressor's  grasp  to  save : 

In  vain — quench'd  are  his  nation's  fires. 

Art  thou  a  soldier  ?  dost  thou  not 

O'er  deeds  chivalric  love  to  muse  ? 
Here  stay  thy  steps — what  better  spot 

Couldst  thou  for  contemplation  choose  ? 
The  earth  beneath  is  holy  ground ; 

It  holds  a  thousand  valiant  braves ; 
Tread  lightly  o'er  each  little  mound, 

For  they  are  no  ignoble  graves. 


Thermopylae  and  Marathon, 

Though  classic  earth,  can  boast  no  more 
Of  deeds  heroic  than  yon  sun 

Once  saw  upon  this  lonely  shore, 
When  in  a  gallant  nation's  last 

And  deadliest  struggle,  for  its  own, 
Tecumseh's  fiery  spirit  passed 

In  blood,  and  sought  its  Father's  throne. 

Oh,  softly  falls  the  summer  dew, 

The  tears  of  heaven,  upon  his  sod, 
For  he  in  life  and  death  was  true, 

Both  to  his  country  and  his  God ; 
For  oh,  if  God  to  man  has  given, 

From  his  bright  home  beyond  the  skies 
One  feeling  that's  akin  to  heaven, 

'Tis  his  who  for  his  country  dies. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest ! — Though  not  a  dirge 

Is  thine,  beside  the  wailing  blast, 
Time  cannot  in  oblivion  merge 

The  light  thy  star  of  glory  cast ; 
While  heave  yon  high  hills  to  the  sky, 

While  rolls  yon  dark  and  turbid  river, 
Thy  name  and  fame  can  never  die — 

Whom  Freedom  loves,  will  live  forever. 


KNOWLEDGE. 

THE  excellent  in  knowledge  walk  the  earth 
Unlike  to  common  men.     Their  gifted  gaze 
Beholds  a  thousand  things  invisible 
To  common  eyes.     Familiar  spirits  wait 
Upon  their  steps  with  new  and  strange  re 
veal  ings  ; 
The  air  is  filled  with  sounds  that  charm 

the  sense ; 
The  breeze  has  holier  freshness,  and  the 

sky, 

With  its  eternity  of  stars,  imparts 
Its  wonders  to  them,  till  the  fleshy  link 
That  binds  to  earth  is  hidden  in  the  thought 
That  bears  the  spirit  nearer  to  its  home. 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


THERE  is  little  in  the  mere  biography  of  Mrs.  Welby  which  distinguishes  her  from 
the  rest  of  her  sex.  Her  life  was  passed  placidly  and  quietly  in  the  performance  of 
those  duties  which  belonged  to  her  station.  She  was  born  on  the  third  of  February, 
1819,  at  St.  Michael's,  in  Maryland,  a  small  village  on  Miles  River,  an  arm  of  Chesa 
peake  Bay,  whence  she  was  removed  when  an  infant  to  Baltimore.  She  resided  in  or 
near  that  city  till  1834,  when  she  removed  to  Louisville,  Kentucky.  It  was  at  this 
latter  place  that  her  poetic  genius  first  became  known  to  the  public,  and  there  she 
died.  It  is  quite  probable  that  she  had  written  previous  to  this  time,  but  none  of  those 
earlier  poems  have  been  preserved.  The  history  of  her  life  does  not  furnish  any  clew 
to  her  genius.  Her  education  was  not  thorough,  her  mind  was  not  disciplined  by 
study,  nor  was  her  reading  at  all  extensive;  yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  disadvantages, 
her  poetry  is  perfect  in  rhythm  and  harmony,  and  is  never  blemished  by  any  fault 
either  of  rhetoric  or  of  grammar.  In  the  most  impressible  part  of  her  earlier  life 
she  was  surrounded  by  a  great  deal  that  was  grand  and  beautiful  in  nature,  and  most 
of  her  poetic  images  refer  to  those  surroundings.  Her  first  publication  was  in  1837, 
she  being  then  hardly  eighteen  years  old.  It  was  printed  in  the  Louisville  Journal, 
of  which  paper  George  D.  Prentice  was  and  is  the  editor.  This  accomplished  gentle 
man,  himself  a  poet  of  admirable  ability,  took  great  pains  to  develop  her  poetic  faculty 
and  to  procure  for  her  a  fair  hearing  before  the  public.  She  had,  however,  very  little 
need  of  any  adventitious  aids  to  establish  her  in  the  highest  favor  with  her  readers. 
From  her  earliest  appearance  before  the  public,  the  sweetness  and  naturalness  of  her 
melodies  caught  every  ear  and  warmed  every  heart.  They  reached  all  the  better 
feelings  of  her  readers  because  they  so  evidently  flowed  fresh  from  her  own.  Her 
poetry  was  the  result  of  a  pure  afflatus,  and  had  never  been  measured  by  the  frigid 
rules  of  art.  She  sang  because  it  was  given  her  to  sing ;  her  melodies  were  like  the 
voices  of  the  birds — they  were  the  simple  outgushing  of  her  own  pure  nature.  She 
did  not  reach  the  higher  forms  of  art,  nor  did  she  attempt  them.  Her  song  was  a 
simple  measure,  learned  of  the  trill  of  the  brooklet,  of  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  or  of 
the  deep  and  solemn  murmur  of  the  ocean.  It  is  not  asserted  that  Mrs.  Welby's 
poetry  is  faultless,  but  there  is  in  it  that  natural  charm  of  innocence  and  grace  which 
is  known  to  but  few  writers.  Mr.  Poe  said  of  her,  in  one  of  his  peculiar  criticisms, 
that  "she  had  nearly  all  the  imagination  of  Maria  del  Occidente,  with  more  refined 
taste ;  and  nearly  all  the  passion  of  Mrs.  Norton,  with  a  nicer  ear,  and,  what  is  sur 
prising,  equal  art.  Very  few  American  poets  are  at  all  comparable  with  her,"  he 
adds,  "in  the  true  poetic  qualities.  As  for  our  poetesses,  few  of  them  approach  her." 
This  is  high  praise,  and,  though  perhaps  somewhat  overstrained,  is  not  entirely 
unmerited.  Her  imagination  and  refinement  of  taste  were,  perhaps,  her  most  promi- 

(  209  ) 

14 


210  AMELIA    B.    WEL  BY.  [1830-40. 

nent  qualities,  and  her  nicety  of  ear  was  none  the  less  remarkable  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  it  had  never  been  cultivated  by  the  study  of  any  model. 

Mrs.  Welby's  poetry  grew  more  rapidly  into  public  favor,  and  found  admiration  and 
appreciation  among  a  larger  number  of  people  than  that  of  any  author  within  our 
knowledge.  Hardly  had  her  fingers  touched  the  lyre  ere  her  strains  were  caught  up 
by  melody-lovers  throughout  the  Union,  and  sung  in  every  peopled  valley  and  echoed 
from  every  sunny  hill-side  of  our  vast  domain.  Her  poetry  was  of  a  character  that 
could  not  fail  to  reach  every  heart.  It  was  natural,  free  from  all  morbidness ;  full  of 
grace,  of  delicacy,  and  of  elegance.  While  it  did  not  reach  beyond  the  comprehen 
sion  and  the  sympathy  of  the  humblest  individual,  while  her  range  of  subjects  was 
confined  to  the  "e  very-day  ness  of  this  work-day  world,"  yet  her  treatment  of  them 
was  so  absolutely  poetic,  and  withal  so  naive  and  original,  as  to  excite  the  admiration 
of  the  most  cultivated  and  refined. 

The  first  collected  edition  of  her  poems  was  published  at  Boston  in  1845,  and, 
although  a  large  number  of  copies  were  embraced  in  it,  it  was  readily  disposed  of 
within  a  very  few  months,  and  the  demand  for  the  work  was  still  unabated.  In  less 
than  twelve  months  after  the  issue  of  her  volume,  overtures  were  made  to  Mrs.  Welby 
by  some  of  the  best  publishers  in  the  country  for  a  new  edition.  The  Appletons  were 
the  successful  competitors  for  the  prize,  and  in  1846  they  published  a  second  edition. 
Since  that  time  edition  after  edition  has  been  issued,  till  already  seventeen  editions 
have  appeared  and  found  ready  sale,  and  the  demand  for  the  volume  is  by  no  means 
exhausted. 

Few  American  writers  either  of  prose  or  poetry  have  met  with  a  success  equal  to 
this,  and  very  few  have  found  admirers  in  as  many  different  circles  of  society  as  has 
Amelia  Welby.  The  secret  of  all  this  is  well  explained  by  Rufus  W.  Griswold  in  one 
of  his  notices  of  this  lady.  He  says,  "Her  fancy  is  lively,  discriminating,  and 
informed  by  a  minute  and  intelligent  observation  of  nature,  and  she  has  introduced 
into  poetry  some  new  and  beautiful  imagery.  No  painful  experience  has  tried  her 
heart's  full  energies ;  but  her  feelings  are  natural  and  genuine ;  and  we  are  sure  of 
the  presence  of  a  womanly  spirit,  reverencing  the  sanctities  and  immunities  of  life, 
and  sympathizing  with  whatever  addresses  the  senses  of  beauty."  Mrs.  Welby's 
brilliant  success  as  an  author  has  led  many  young  ladies  in  the  West  to  emulate  her 
example ;  and  while  here  and  there  is  found  one  who  displays  talent  and  capacity, 
none  have  as  yet  compassed  any  thing  like  equal  popularity,  and  very  few,  indeed, 
have  been  found  equally  deserving. 

In  person  Mrs.  Welby  was  rather  above  than  below  the  middle  height.  Slender 
and  exceedingly  graceful  in  form,  with  exquisite  taste  in  dress,  and  a  certain  easy, 
floating  sort  of  movement,  she  would  at  once  be  recognized  as  a  beautiful  woman.  A 
slight  imperfection  in  the  upper  lip,  while  it  prevented  her  face  from  being  perfect, 
yet  gave  a  peculiar  piquancy  to  its  expression  which  was  far  from  destroying  any  of 
it.-  charm.  Her  hair  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  was  always  arranged  regardless 
of  the  prevailing  fashion,  with  singular  elegance  and  adaptation  to  her  face  and  figure. 
Her  manners  were  simple,  natural,  and  impulsive,  like  those  of  a  child.  Her  conver- 


1830-40.]  AMELIA   B.    WE LB-Y.  211 

sation,  though  sometimes  frivolous,  was  always  charming.  She  loved  to  give  the  rein 
to  her  fancy,  to  invent  situations  and  circumstances  for  herself  and  her  friends,  and  to 
talk  of  them  as  if  they  were  realities.  Her  social  life  was  full  of  innocent  gayety 
and  playfulness.  She  was  the  idol  of  her  friends,  and  she  repaid  their  affection  with 
her  whole  heart.  Her  character  was  as  beautiful  as  her  manners  were  simple. 
Courted  and  flattered  as  she  was,  she  was,  perhaps,  a  little  willful,  and  sometimes 
even  obstinate,  but  an  appeal  to  her  affections  always  softened  and  won  her.  Her 
willfulness  was  that  of  a  wayward,  petted  child,  and  had  a  charrn  even  in  its  most  posi 
tive  exhibitions. 

Mrs.  Welby's  maiden  name  was  Coppuck.  She  was  married  in  June,  1838,  to 
George  Welby,  a  large  merchant  of  Louisville,  and  a  gentleman  entirely  worthy  to 
be  the  husband  of  the  woman  and  the  poetess.  She  had  but  one  child,  a  boy,  who 
was  born  but  two  months  before  her  death.  She  died  on  the  third  of  May,  1852,  in 
her  thirty-third  year. 

Her  prose  writings  consist  only  of  her  correspondence.  Her  letters  and  notes, 
however,  sometimes  assumed  the  form  of  compositions  or  sketches.  The  following  is 
an  illustration  of  the  style  of  many  of  them.  She  had  been  visited  at  her  residence 
by  a  party  of  gay  masqueraders,  among  whom  was  a  very  intimate  friend  costumed 
as  a  Turk,  and  bearing  the  euphonious  sobriquet  of  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassen.  On 
the  day  after  this  visit,  Mrs.  Welby  received  from  this  pseudo  Pashaw  a  note  of  fare 
well  written  in  the  redundant  style  of  the  Orientals,  to  which  the  following  is  her 
answer : 

Although  a  stranger  to  the  graceful  style  of  Oriental  greeting,  Amelia,  the  daughter  of  the 
Christian,  would  send  to  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassen,  ere  he  departs  from  the  midst  of  her  people,  a 
few  words  in  token  of  farewell,  and  also  in  acknowledgment  of  the  flowery  epistle  sent  by  the  gal 
lant  Ben  Khorassen  to  the  "  Bulbul  of  the  Giaour  Land,"  as  he  is  pleased,  in  the  poetical  language 
of  his  country,  to  designate  the  humblest  of  his  admirers !  Like  the  sudden  splendor  of  a  dazzling 
meteor,  gleaming  before  the  delighted  eye  of  the  startled  gazer,  was  the  brief  sojourn  of  the  noble 
Ben  Khorassen  in  the  presence  of  the  happy  "  Bulbul."  He  came  before  her  uniting  in  his  aspect 
the  majesty  of  a  god  of  old  with  the  mien  of  a  mortal — graceful  in  his  step,  winning  in  his  words, 
yet  "  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners."  The  song  of  the  "Bulbul"  was  hushed;  the  words  of 
greeting  died  upon  her  lip.  But  now  that  the  mightiest  of  the  mighty  has  withdrawn  from  her 
dazzled  gaze  the  glory  of  his  overpowering  presence,  the  trembling  "  Bulbul "  lifts  her  head  once 
more  like  a  drooping  flower  oppressed  by  the  too  powerful  rays  of  the  noontide  sun  ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  gloom  that  overshadows  her,  recalls  to  mind  every  word  and  look  of  the  gallant  Ben 
Khorassen,  till  her  thoughts  of  him  arise  like  stars  upon  the  horizon  of  her  memory,  lighting  up 
the  gloom  of  his  absence,  and  glittering  upon  the  waters  of  the  fountain  of  her  heart,  whose  every 
murmur  is  attuned  to  the  music  of  his  memory. 

But  the  bark  of  Hamet  Ali  Ben  Khorassen  floats  upon  the  waters  with  her  white  wings  spread 
for  the  clime  of  the  crescent.  Her  brilliant  pennon  streams  from  the  strand,  and  the  words  of  the 
"  Bulbul "  must  falter  into  a  farewell.  May  the  favoring  gales  of  paradise,  fragrant  as  the  breath 
of  houris,  fill  the  silken  sails  of  Ben  Khorassen,  and  waft  him  onward  to  his  native  groves  of  citron 
and  of  myrtle,  waking  thoughts  in  his  bosom  fresh  and  fragrant  as  the  flowers  that  cluster  in  bis 
clime !  Thus  prays  Amelia,  the  daughter  of  the  Christian,  and  the  "  Bulbul  of  the  Giaour  Land ! " 
Farewell ! 

This  exceedingly  graceful  and  tasteful  little  note  is  but  a  single  specimen  of  a  sort 
of  composition  with  which  Mrs.  Welby  delighted  to  indulge  her  intimate  friends. 


212  AMELIA    B.    W  EL  BY.  [1830-40. 

Indeed,  during  the  last  few  years  of  her  life,  these  notes  and  letters  formed  the  only 
means  through  which  her  beautiful  fancies  were  conveyed.  She  had  ceased  almost 
entirely  to  write  verses,  and  a  change  was  coming  over  her  mind.  Her  genius  was 
seeking  some  new  form  of  development.  Before,  however,  her  friends  could  see  even 
the  foreshadowings  of  this  new  form,  this  accomplished  poetess  and  estimable  woman 
was  called  away  to  join  her  voice  with  the  angelic  choir,  whose  harmonies  are  the 
delight  and  the  glory  of  the  celestial  world.  On  a  bright  May  morning,  such  as  her 
own  songs  have  taught  us  to  love,  when  the  earth  was  redolent  of  beauty,  and  the 
flowers  were  sending  up  to  heaven  the  incense  of  their  perfumes ;  when  all  rejoicing 
nature  was  pouring  out  its  morning  orison  to  its  Creator,  the  angels  sent  by  her 
heavenly  Father  came  and  bore  her  spirit  to  its  home  in  the  skies.  And  so 

"  She  has  passed,  like  a  bird,  from  the  minstrel  throng, 
She  has  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  belong !  " 

The  following  lines,  written  by  Amelia  on  the  death  of  a  sister  poetess,*  will  form 
a  fitting  conclusion  to  this  sketch,  and  a  fitting  tribute  to  her  own  memory : 

She  has  passed,  like  a  bird,  from  the  minstrel  throng, 
She  has  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  belong ! 
Her  place  is  hush'd  by  her  lover's  side, 
Yet  his  heart  is  full  of  his  fair  young  bride  ; 
The  hopes  of  his  spirit  are  crushed  and  bowed 
As  he  thinks  of  his  love  in  her  long  white  shroud  ; 
For  the  fragrant  sighs  of  her  perfumed  breath 
Were  kissed  from  her  lips  by  his  rival — Death. 

Cold  is  her  bosom,  her  thin  white  arms 
All  mutely  crossed  o'er  its  icy  charms, 
As  she  lies,  like  a  statue  of  Grecian  art, 
With  a  marbled  brow  and  a  cold  hushed  heart ; 
Her  locks  are  bright,  but  their  gloss  is  hid  ; 
Her  eye  is  sunken  'neath  its  waxen  lid  : 
And  thus  she  lies  in  her  narrow  hall — 
Our  fair  young  minstrel — the  loved  of  all. 

Light  as  a  bird's  were  her  springing  feet, 

Her  heart  as  joyous,  her  song  as  sweet  5 

Yet  never  again  shall  that  heart  be  stirred 

With  its  glad  wild  songs  like  a  singing  bird : 

Ne'er  again  shall  the  strains  be  sung, 

That  in  sweetness  dropped  from  her  silver  tongue  ; 

The  music  is  o'er,  and  Death's  cold  dart 

Hath  broken  the  spell  of  that  free,  glad  heart. 

Often  at  eve,  when  the  breeze  is  still, 
And  the  moon  floats  up  by  the  distant  hill, 
As  I  wander  alone  'mid  the  summer  bowers, 
And  wreathe  my  locks  with  the  sweet  wild  flowers, 
I  will  think  of  the  time  when  she  lingered  there, 
With  her  mild  blue  eyes,  and  her  long  fair  hair ; 
I  will  treasure  her  name  in  my  bosom-core  : 
But  my  heart  is  sad— I  can  sing  no  more. 

*  Laura  M.  Thurston. 


1830-40] 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


213 


THE  RAINBOW. 

I  SOMETIMES  have  thoughts,  in  my  loneliest 

hours, 
That  lie  on  my  heart  like  the  dew  on  the 

flowers, 

Of  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon, 
When  my  heart  was  as  light  as  a  blossom 

in  June ; 
The  green  earth  was  moist  with  the  late 

fallen  showers, 
The  breeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  open 

the  flowers, 
While  a  single  white  cloud  to  its  haven  of 

rest 
On  the  white  wing  of  peace,  floated  off  in 

the  west. 

As  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the 
cool  breeze, 

That  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled 
the  seas, 

Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  un 
rolled 

Its  soft-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  geld. 

'Twas  born  in  a  moment,  yet,  quick  as  its 
birth, 

It  had  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth, 

And,  fair  as  an  angel,  it  floated  as  free, 

With  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on 
the  sea. 

How  calm  was  the  ocean !  how  gentle  its 

swell ! 
Like  a  woman's  soft  bosom  it  rose  and  it 

fell; 
While  its  light  sparkling  waves,  stealing 

laughingly  o'er, 
When  they   saw  the  fair  rainbow,  knelt 

down  on  the  shore. 
No  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of 

prayer, 
Yet  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was 

there, 


And  bent  my  young  head,  in  devotion  and 

love, 
Neath  the  form  of  the  angel,  that  floated 

above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautiful 
wings ! 

How  boundless  its  circle !  how  radiant  its 
rings ! 

If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  suspended  in 
air; 

If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was 
there ; 

Thus  forming  a  girdle,  as  brilliant  and 
whole 

As  the  thoughts  of  the  rainbow,  that  cir 
cled  my  soul. 

Like  the  wing  of  the  Deity,  calmly  un 
furled, 

It  bent  from  the  cloud  and  encircled  the 
world. 

There  are  moments,  I   think,  when    the 

spirit  receives 
Whole  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten 

leaves, 
When  the  folds  of  the  heart  in  a  moment 

unclose, 
Like  the  innermost  leaves  from  the  heart 

of  a  rose. 
And  thus,  when  the  rainbow  had  passed 

from  the  sky, 
The  thoughts  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to 

pass  by ; 

It  left  my  full  soul,  like  the  wing  of  a  dove, 
All  fluttering  with  pleasure,  and  fluttering 

with  love. 

I  know  that  each  moment  of  rapture  or 

pain 
But  shortens  the  links  in  life's  mystical 

chain ; 
I  know  that  my  form,  like  that  bow  from 

the  wave, 
Must  pass  from  the  earth,  and  lie  cold  in 

the  grave; 


L'14 


A  M  K  L  I  A    B  .    W  E  L  B  Y . 


[1830-40. 


Yet  O !  when  death's  shadows  my  bosom 
encloud, 

When  I  shrink  at  the  thought  of  the  coffin 
and  shroud, 

May  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  my  spirit  en 
fold 

In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and 
gold. 


THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

O  THOU,  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe, 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  0  God! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  trembling  folds  are  lightly  furled, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer  flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Upspringing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet, 

At  every  step,  Thy  smiles,  0  God ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot — 
Give  me,  0  Lord !  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot ! 
Within  their  pure,  ambrosial  bells, 
In  odors  sweet,  Thy  Spirit  dwells  ; 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 
Tis  Thine,  0  God !  for  Thou  art  there. 

List !  from  yon  casement  low  and  dim, 
What  sounds   are   these,  that   fill   the 
breeze  ? 

It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 
Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  seas — 


The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 
Upon  his  light,  suspended  oar, 

Until  those  soft,  delicious  airs 

Have  died,  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 

Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  ? 

What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul? 

His  heart  is  filled  with  peace  and  prayer, 

For  Thou,  0  God  !  art  with  him  there. 

The  birds  among  the  summer-blooms, 

Pour  forth  to  Thee  their  strains  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above ; 
We  hear  their  sweet,  familiar  airs, 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found ; 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll, 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
Thy  still,  small   voice   seems  whispering 
there. 


The  stars,  those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  vails, 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet,  set  the  soaring  fancy  free, 
And  0,  how  sweet  the  tastes  they  tell ! 

They  tell  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee ! 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  gale  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair, 
They  speak  of  Thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 

The  spirit,  oft  oppressed  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  Thee  from  its  thought; 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 

Thou    mighty    Guest    that    com'st    un 
sought  ? 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Whate'er  our  thoughts,  whate'er  we  be, 
Still,  magnet-like,  the  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  Thee. 


1830-40.] 


A  M  E  L  I  A    B      W  E  L  15  Y  . 


215 


We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blessed, 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou,  the  living  God,  art  there. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  of  heart  shall  enter  in ; 
In  those  far  realms,  so  calmly  bright, 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathes  its  soft  plumes  in  living  light, 

That  sparkles  from  thy  radiant  Throne! 
There  souls,  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours, 
Look  up  and  sing 'mid  fadeless  flowers; 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  peace,  art  there. 


PULPIT  ELOQUENCE. 

THE  day  was  declining  ;  the  breeze  in  its 

glee, 
Had  left  the  fair  blossoms  to  sing  on  the 

sea, 
As  the  sun  in  its  gorgeousness,  radiant  and 

still, 
Dropped  down  like  a  gem  from  the  brow 

of  the  hill ; 

One  tremulous  star,  in  the  glory  of  June, 
Came  out  with  a  smile  and  sat  down  by 

the  moon, 
As  she  graced  her  blue  throne  with  the 

pride  of  a  queen, 
The  smiles  of  her  loveliness  gladdening 

the  scene. 

The   scene  was  enchanting !    in  distance 

away 
Rolled    the    foam-crested   waves   of    the 

Chesapeake  Bay, 
While  bathed  in  the  moonlight  the  village 

was  seen, 


With  the  church  in  the  distance  that  stood 
on  the  green ; 

The  soft-sloping  meadows  lay  brightly  un 
rolled, 

With  their  mantles  of  verdure  and  blos 
soms  of  gold, 

And  the  earth  in  her  beauty,  forgetting  to 
grieve, 

Lay  asleep  in  her  bloom  on  the  bosom  of 
eve. 

A  light-hearted  child,  I  had  wandered  away 
From  the   spot  where  my  footsteps  had 

gamboled  all  day, 
And  free  as  a  bird's  was  the  song  of  my 

soul, 

As  I  heard  the  wild  waters  exultingly  roll, 
While,  lightening  my  heart  as  I  sported 

along, 
With  bursts  of  low  laughter  and  snatches 

of  song, 
I  struck  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er  the 

sod 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of 

God. 

As  I  traced  its  green  windings,  a  murmur 

of  prayer, 
With  the  hymn  of  the  worshipers,  rose  on 

the  air, 
And,  drawn  by  the  links  of  its  sweetness 

along, 
I  stood  unobserved   in  the  midst  of  the 

throng ; 
For  awhile  my  young  spirit  still  wandered 

about 
With  the  birds,  and  the  winds,  that  were 

singing  without ; 
But  birds,  waves,  and  zephyrs  were  quickly 

forgot 
In  one  angel-like  being  that  brightened  the 

spot. 

In  stature  majestic,  apart  from  the  throng, 
He  stood  in  his  beauty,  the  theme  of  my 
song! 


216 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


[1830-40. 


His  cheek  pale  with  fervor — the  blue  orbs 
above 

Lit  up  with  the  splendors  of  youth  and  of 
love ; 

Yet  the  heart-glowing  raptures  that  beamed 
from  those  eyes, 

Seemed  saddened  by  sorrows,  and  chas 
tened  by  sighs, 

As  if  the  young  heart  in  its  bloom  had 
grown  cold, 

With  its  loves  unrequited,  its  sorrows  un 
told. 

Such  language  as  his  I   may  never  re 
call; 
But  his  theme  was  salvation — salvation  to 

all; 
And  the  souls  of  a  thousand  in  ecstacy 

hung 
On  the  manna-like  sweetness  that  dropped 

from  his  tongue ; 
Not  alone  on  the  ear  his  wild  eloquence 

stole ; 
Enforced  by  each  gesture  it  sank  to  the 

soul, 
Till  it  seemed  that  an  angel  had  brightened 

the  sod 
And  brought  to  each  bosom  a  message  from 

God. 


He  spoke  of  the  Saviour — what  pictures 

he  drew ! 
The  scene  of  his  sufferings  rose  clear  on 

my  view — 

The  cross — the  rude  cross  where  he  suf 
fered  and  died, 
The  gush  of  bright  crimson  that  flowed 

from  his  side, 
The  cup  of  his  sorrows,  the  wormwood  and 

gall, 
The  darkness  that  mantled  the  earth  as  a 

pall, 
The  garland  of  thorns,  and  the  demon-like 

crews, 
Who  knelt  as  they  scoffed  Him — "  Hail, 

King  of  the  Jews!" 


He  spake,  and  it  seemed  that  his  statue- 
like  form 
Expanded  and  glowed  as  his  spirit  grew 

warm — 
His  tone  so  impassioned,  so  melting  his 

air, 
As  touched  with  compassion,  he  ended  in 

prayer, 
His  hands  clasped  above  him,  his  blue  orbs 

upthrown, 
Still  pleading  for  sins  that  were  never  his 

own, 
While  that  mouth,  where  such  sweetness 

ineffable  clung, 
Still  spoke,  though  expression  had  died  on 

his  tongue. 

0  God  !  what  emotions  the  speaker  awoke ! 

A  mortal  he  seemed — yet  a  deity  spoke ; 

A  man — yet  so  far  from  humanity  riven  ! 

On  earth — yet  so  closely  connected  with 
heaven ! 

How  oft  in  my  fancy  I've  pictured  him 
there, 

As  he  stood  in  that  triumph  of  passion  and 
prayer, 

With  his  eyes  closed  in  rapture — their  tran 
sient  eclipse 

Made  bright  by  the  smiles  that  illumined 
his  lips. 

There's  a  charm  in  delivery,  a  magical 
art, 

That  thrills,  like  a  kiss,  from  the  lip  to  the 
heart ; 

'Tis  the  glance,  the  expression,  the  well- 
chosen  word, 

By  whose  magic  the  depths  of  the  spirit 
are  stirred, 

The  smile,  the  mute  gesture,  the  soul-start 
ling  pause, 

The  eye's  sweet  expression,  that  melts 
while  it  awes, 

The  lip's  soft  persuasion,  its  musical  tone — 

O  such  was  the  charm  of  that  eloquent 
one! 


1830-40.] 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY. 


217 


The  time  is  long  past,  yet  how  clearly  de 
fined 
That  bay-church,  and  village,  float  up  on 

my  mind ; 

I  see  amid  azure  the  moon  in  her  pride, 
With  the  sweet  little  trembler,  that  sat  by 

her  side ; 
I  hear  the  blue  waves,  as  she  wanders 

along, 
Leap  up  in  their  gladness  and  sing  her  a 

song, 
And  I  tread  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er 

the  sod, 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship 

of  God. 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  what  visions  I 

see! 
The  past,  the  dim  past,  is  the  present  to 

me ; 

I  am  standing  once  more 'mid  that  heart- 
stricken  throng, 
A  vision  floats  ttp — 'tis  the  theme  of  my 

song- 
All  glorious  and  bright  as  a  spirit  of  air, 
The  light  like  a  halo  encircling  his  hair — 
As  I  catch  the  same  accents  of  sweetness 

and  love, 
He  whispers  of  Jesus — and  points  us  above. 

How  sweet  to  my  heart  is  the  picture  I've 

traced ! 
Its  chain  of  bright  fancies  seemed  almost 

effaced, 
Till  memory,  the  fond  one,  that  sits  in  the 

soul, 
Took  up  the  frail  links,  and  connected  the 

whole  : 
As  the  dew  to  the  blossom,  the  bud  to  the 

bee, 
As  the  scent  to  the  rose,  are  these  memories 

to  me  ; 
Round  the  chords  of  my  heart  they  have 

tremblingly  clung, 
And  the  echo  it  gives  is  the  song  I  have 

sun":. 


THE  LITTLE  STEP-SON. 

I  HAVE  a  little  step-son,  the  loveliest  thing 

alive ; 
A  noble  sturdy  boy  is  he,  and  yet  he's  only 

five; 
His  smooth  cheek  hath  a  blooming  glow 

his  eyes  are  black  as  jet, 
And  his  lips  are  like  two  rose-buds,  all 

tremulous  and  wet ; 
His  days  pass  off  in  sunshine,  in  laughter, 

and  in  song, 
As  careless  as  a  summer  rill,  that  sings 

itself  along; 
For  like  a  pretty  fairy  tale,  that's  all  too 

quickly  told, 
Is  the  young  life  of  a  little  one,  that's  only 

five  years  old. 

He's  dreaming  on  his  happy  couch,  before 

the  day  grows  dark, 
He's  up  with  morning's  rosy  ray,  a-singing 

with  the  lark ; 
Where'er  the  flowers  are  freshest,  where'er 

the  grass,  is  green, 
With  light  locks  waving  on  the  wind,  his 

fairy  form  is  seen, 
Amid  the  whistling  March  winds,  amid  the 

April  showers ; 
He  warbles  with    the  singing-birds,   and 

blossoms  with  the  flowers. 
He  cares  not  for  the  summer  heat,  he  cares 

not  for  the  cold, 
My  sturdy  little  step-son,  that's  only  five 

years  old. 

How  touching  'tis  to  see  him  clasp  his 
dimpled  hands  in  prayer, 

And  raise  his  little  rosy  face  with  rever 
ential  air! 

How  simple  in  his  eloquence !  how  soft  his 
accents  fall, 

When  pleading  with  the  King  of  kings,  to 
love  and  bless  us  all ; 

And  when  from  prayer  he  bounds  away  in 
innocence  and  joy, 


218 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


[1830-40. 


The  blessing  of  a  smiling  God  goes  witl 

tlie  sinless  boy  ; 
A  little  lambkin  of  the  flock,  within  th 

Saviour's  fold, 
Is  he  my  lovely  step-son,  that's  only  five 

years  old. 

I  have  not  told  you  of  our  home,  that  in 

the  summer  hours, 
Stands   in    its    simple    modesty,    half  hie 

among  the  flowers ; 
I  have  not  said  a  single  word  about  our 

mines  of  wealth — 
Our  treasures  are  this  little  boy,  content 
ment,  peace  and  health. 
For  even  a  lordly  hall  to  us  would  be  a 

voiceless  place, 
Without  the  gush  of  his  glad  voice,  the 

gleams  of  his  bright  face. 
And  many  a  courtly  pair,  I  ween,  would 

give  their  gems  and  gold 
For  a  noble,  happy  boy  like  ours,  some 

four  or  five  years  old. 


TO  A  SEA-SHELL. 

SHELL  of  the  bright  sea-waves ! 
What  is  it,  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan  ? 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own  ? 

Lute  of  the  ocean-caves ! 

O  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chambers  dim, 
Br» -a tiling  forever,  in  its  mournful  hymn, 

Of  ocean's  anthem  swell  ? 

Wert  thou  a  murmurer  lon<* 

O 

In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 

Ere  from  the  blue  sky  thou  hadst  heard 

the  breeze 
Pour  its  full  tide  of  song  ? 


Another  thing  with  thee — 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  brightly 
sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  sea? 

And  say,  0  lone  sea-shell ! 
Are  there  not  costly  things  and  sweet  per 
fumes 
Scattered  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of 

tombs  ? 
Hush  thy  low  moan,  and  tell. 

But  yet,  and  more  than  all — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  tossed 
O'er  earth's  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the 
lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall  ? 

'Tis  vain — thou  answerest  not ! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead  ; 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs  like  odors  shed, 

To  hold  them  unforgot ! 

Thine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to   be  with  the  many  things  that 
dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet  there  is  no  sound 
Jpon  the  waters,  whispered  by  the  waves, 
[3ut  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves, 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 


The  earth,  O  moaning  shell ! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than 

these — 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 

Are  not  these  tones  of  earth, 
The    rustling   forest,   with   its    shivering 

leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlit 

eves 
Upon  the  seas  have  birth  ? 


1830-40.] 


A  M  KLIA    B.   WELBY. 


219 


Alas  !  thou  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in 

sighs, 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


THE  OLD  MAID. 

WHY  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?  her  heart 
Seems   melting  in   her  eye's   delicious 

blue, — 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through  ; 

In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells, 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood 

wore ; 
And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that 

tells 
The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday !  with  a  sigh 
Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth's  lux 
uriant  bowers, 

And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 
That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden 

hours ! 

She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 
With  thoughts  too  wild  and  passionate 

to  speak  ; 

Yet  her  full  heart — its  own  interpreter — 
Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 

Joy's    opening    buds,    affection's    glowing 

flowers, 
Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming 

track  ; 

Oh,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours  ! 
And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wandei 

back! 

No  !  she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 
On  pleasures  past,  though  never  more 

to  be: 

Hope  links  her  to  the  future — but  the  link 
That  binds  her  to  the  past,  is  memory  ! 


From  her  lone  path  she  never  turns  aside, 
Though    passionate   worshipers    before 

her  fall ; 

Like  some  pure  planet  in  her  lonely  pride, 
She  seems  to  soar  and  beam  above  them 

all! 

Sot  that  her  heart  is  cold !  emotions  new 
And  fresh  as  flowers,  are  with  her  heart 
strings  knit, 
And  sweetly  mournful  pleasures  wander 

through 
Her  virgin  soul,  and  softly  ruffle  it. 

For  she  hath  lived  with  heart  and  soul 

alive 

To  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  fair; 
Sweet  thoughts,  like  honey-bees,  have  made 

their  hive, 

Of  her  soft  bosom-cell,  and  cluster  there ; 
Yet  life  is  not  to  her  what  it  hath  been, — 
Her  soul  hath  learned  to  look  beyond  its 

gloss — 

And  now  she  hovers  like  a  star  between 
Her  deeds  of  love — her  Saviour  on  the 
Cross ! 

Beneath  the  cares  of  earth  she  does  not 

bow, 
Though   she   hath  ofttimes  drained  its 

bitter  cup, 
But   ever  wanders  on    with   heavenward 

brow, 

And  eyes  whose  lovely  lids  are  lifted  up ! 

She  feels  that  in  a  lovelier,  happier  sphere, 

Her  bosom  yet  will,  bird-like,  find  its 

mate, 

And  all  the  joys  it  found  so  blissful  here 
Within  that  spirit-realm  perpetuate. 

Yet,  sometimes  o'er  her  trembling  heart 
strings  thrill 

Soft  sighs,  for  raptures  it  hath  ne'er  en 
joyed, — 
And  then  she  dreams  of  love,  and  strives 

to  fill 

With  wild  and  passionate  thoughts,  the 
craving:  void. 


220 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


[1830-40. 


And  thus  she  wanders  on — half  sad,  half 

blest — 
Without  a   mate   for  the   pure,   lonely 

heart, 
That,  yearning,  throbs  within  her  virgin 

breast, 
Never  to  find  its  lovely  counterpart ! 


MAY. 

0,  THIS  is  the  beautiful  month  of  May, 
The  season  of  birds  and  of  flowers ; 

The  young  and  the  lovely  are  out  and  away, 

'Mid  the  upspringing  grass  and  the  blos 
soms,  at  play, 

And  many  a  heart  will  be  happy  to-day, 
In  this  beautiful  region  of  ours. 

Sweet   April,   the  frail,   the   capriciously 

bright, 

Hath  passed  like  the  lovely  away, 
Yet  we  mourn  not  her  absence,  for  swift 

at  her  flight 
Sprang  forth  her  young  sister,  an  angel  of 

light, 
And,  fair  as  a  sunbeam  that  dazzles  the 

sight, 
Is  beautiful,  beautiful  May. 

What  scenes  of  delight,  what  sweet  visions 

she  brings 

Of  freshness,  of  gladness,  and  mirth, 
Of  fair  sunny  glades  where  the  buttercup 

springs, 
Of  cool  gushing  fountains,  of  rose-tinted 

wings, 
Of  birds,  bees,  and  blossoms,  all  beautiful 

things, 
Whose  brightness  rejoices  the  earth ! 

How  fair  is  the  landscape!   o'er  hill-top 

and  glade, 
What  swift-varying  colors  are  rolled — 


The  shadow  now  sunshine,  the  sunshine 
now  shade ; 

Their    light-shifting    hues  for   the   green 

earth  have  made 
A  garment  resplendent  with  dew-gems  o'er- 

laid— 
A  light-woven  tissue  of  gold ! 

O  yes  !  lovely  May,  the  enchantingly  fair, 

Is  here  with  her  beams  and  her  flowers ; 

Their  rainbow-like  garments  the  blossoms 

now  wear, 

In  all  their  health-giving  odors  may  share, 
For  the  breath  of  their  sweetness  is  out  on 

the  air, 
Those  children  of  sunbeams  and  showers. 

The     fragrant     magnolia     in     loveliness 

dressed, 

The  lilac's  more  delicate  hue, 
The  violet  half  opening  its  azure-hued  vest, 
Just   kissed   by  a   sunbeam,  its   innocent 

guest, 
The  light  floating  cloudlets  like  spirits  at 

rest, 
All  pictured  in  motionless  blue — 

These  brighten  the  landscape,  and  softly 

unroll 
Their  splendors  by  land  and  by  sea  ; 

They  steal  o'er  the  heart  with  a  magic  con 
trol, 

That  lightens  the  bosom  and  freshens  the 
soul — 

0 !    this  is  the  charm  that  enhances  the 

whole, 
And  makes  them  so  lovely  to  me. 

How  sweet,  when  the  month's  in  the  flush 

of  its  prime, 
To  hear,  as  we  wander  alone, 

Some  bird's  sudden  song  from  the  sweet- 
scented  lime, 

And  catch  the  low  gush  of  its  exquisite 
chime, 


1830-40] 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


221 


And  set  to  music  and  turn  it  to  rhyme, 
With  a  spirit  as  light  as  its  own. 

And  sweet  to  recline  'neath  the  emerald- 
robed  trees, 

Where  fairy-like  footsteps  have  trod, 
With  the  lull  of  the  waters,  the  hum  of 

the  bees, 

Melting  into  the  spirit  delicious  degrees 
Of   exquisite  softness !    in  moments  like 

these, 
I  have  walked  with  the  angels  of  God. 

Sweet  season  of  love,  when  the  fairy-queen 

trips 

At  eve  through  the  star-lighted  grove — 
What  vows  are  now  breathed  where  the 

honey-bee  sips ! 
What   cheeks,  whose  bright  beauties  the 

roses  eclipse, 

Are  crimsoned  with  blushes !  what  rose- 
tinted  lips 
Are  moist  with  the  kisses  of  love ! 

Yet,  loveliest  of  months  !  with  the  praises 

I  sing, 

Thy  glories  are  passing  away 
With  the  dew  from  the  blossom,  the  bird 

on  the  wing, 

Yet  round  thee  a  garland  poetic  I  fling, 
Sweet  sister  of  April !  young  child  of  the 

Spring ! 
0  beautiful,  beautiful  May ! 


THE  DEW-DROP. 

I  AM  a  sparkling  drop  of  dew, 

Just  wept  from  yon  silver  star, 
But  drops  of  dew  have  very  few 

To  care  for  what  they  are ; 
For  little  ye  dream,  who  dwell  below, 

Of  all  I've  wandered  through  ; 
Ye  only  know  I  sparkle  so, 

Because  I'm  a  drop  of  dew. 


I  flashed  at  first  with  waves,  that  whirl 

O'er  the  blue,  blue  tossing  sea  ; 
Where  eddies  curl  o'er  beds  of  pearl 

I  wandered  wild  and  free, 
Till  I  chanced  to  spy  an  elfin  king, 

And  I  danced  before  his  view, 
When  the  merry  thing,  with  his  glittering 
wing, 

Whisked  off  the  drop  of  dew. 

The  evening  air  with  sweets  was  fraught, 

And  away  we  flitted  far, 
When,  quick    as  thought,  I  was  upward 
caught, 

To  yon  lovely  vesper  star ; 
And  I'm  very  sure  a  gentle  charm 

That  bright  thing  round  me  threw, 
For  an  angel  form,  in  her  bosom  warm, 

Enfolded  the  drop  of  dew. 

But  I  slept  not  long  in  yon  starry  bower, 

In  the  bosom  of  my  love, 
For,  in  a  shower,  to  this  primrose  flower, 

She  sent  me  from  above ; 
And  soon  its  moonlight  leaves  will  close, 

But  they  hide  me  not  from  view, 
For  the  wind,  that  flows  o'er  the  young 
primrose, 

Will  kiss  off  the  drop  of  dew. 


THE  SUMMER  BIRDS. 

SWEET  warblers  of  the  sunny  hours, 

Forever  on  the  wing — 
I  love  them  as  I  love  the  flowers, 

The  sunlight  and  the  spring. 
They  come  like  pleasant  memories 

In  summer's  joyous  time, 
And  sing  their  gushing  melodies 

As  I  would  sing  a  rhyme. 

In  the  green  and  quiet  places, 
Where  the  golden  sunlight  falls, 


A  M  K  L  I A    B  .    W  E  L  B  Y . 


[1830-40. 


Wr  sit  with  smiling  faces 

To  list  their  silver  calls. 
And  when  their  holy  anthems 

Come  pealing  through  the  air, 
Our  hearts  leap  forth  to  meet  them 

With  a  blessing  and  a  prayer. 

Amid  the  morning's  fragrant  dew, 

Amid  the  mists  of  even, 
They  warble  on  as  if  they  drew 

Their  music  down  from  heaven. 
How  sweetly  sounds  each  mellow  note 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
When  dying  zephyrs  rise  and  float 

Like  lovers'  sighs  away  ! 

Like  shadowy  spirits  seen  at  eve 

Among  the  tombs  they  glide, 
Where    sweet  pale   forms,  for  which   we 
grieve, 

Lie  sleeping  side  by  side. 
They  break  with  song  the  solemn  hush 

Where  peace  reclines  her  head, 
And  link  their  lays  with  mournful  thoughts, 

That  cluster  round  the  dead. 

For  never  can  my  soul  forget 

The  loved  of  other  years  ; 
Their  memories  fill  my  spirit  yet — 

I've  kept  them  green  with  tears  ; 
And  their  singing  greets  my  heart  at  times 

As  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Though  their  music  and  their  loveliness 

Is  ever  o'er — forever  o'er. 

And  often,  when  the  mournful  night 

Comes  with  a  low  sweet  tune, 
And  sets  a  star  on  every  height 

And  one  beside  the  moon, 
When  not  a  sound  of  wind  or  wave 

Tin-  holy  stillness  mars, 
I  look  above  and  strive  to  trace 

Their  dwellings  in  the  stars. 

Tin-  birds  of  summer  hours — 

They  bring  a  gush  of  glee 
To  the  cliild  among  the  dewy  flowers, 

To  the  sailor  on  the  sea. 


We  hear  their  thrilling  voices 
In  their  swift  and  airy  flight, 

And  the  inmost  heart  rejoices 
With  a  calm  and  pure  delight. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  starlight  hours, 

When  I  am  with  the  dead, 
0  !  may  they  flutter 'mid  the  flowers, 

That  blossom  o'er  my  head, 
And  pour  their  songs  of  gladness  forth 

In  one  melodious  strain, 
O'er  lips,  whose  broken  melody 

Shall  never  sing  again. 


THE  MOURNFUL   HEART.. 

MY  heart  is  like  a  lonely  bird, 

That  sadly  sings, 
Brooding  upon  its  nest  unheard, 

With  folded  wings. 

For  of  my  thoughts  the  sweetest  part 

Lie  all  untold, 
And  treasured  in  this  mournful  heart 

Like  precious  gold. 

The  fever-dreams  that  haunt  my  soul 

Are  deep  and  strong  ; 
For  through  its  deep  recesses  roll 

Such  floods  of  song. 

I  strive  to  calm,  to  lull  to  rest, 

Each  mournful  strain, 
To  lay  the  phantom  in  my  breast — 

But  ah  !  'tis  vain. 

The  glory  of  the  silent  skies, 

Each  kindling  star, 
The  young  leaves  stirred  with  melodies 

My  quiet  mar. 

0 !  in  my  soul,  too  wild  and  strong 

This  gift  hath  grown, 
Bright  spirit  of  immortal  song! 

Take  back  thine  own. 


1830-40.] 


AMELIA    B .    W  E  L  B  Y . 


223 


I  know  no  sorrows  round  me  cling, 

My  years  are  few  ; 
And  yet  my  heart's  the  saddest  thing 

I  ever  knew. 

For  in  my  thoughts  the  world  doth  share 

But  little  part ; 
A  mournful  thing  it  is  to  bear 

A  mournful  heart. 


THE  GOLDEN  RINGLET. 

HERE  is  a  little  golden  tress 

Of  soft  unbraided  hair, 
The  all  that's  left  of  loveliness, 

That  once  was  thought  so  fair  ; 
And   yet   though   time   hath  dimmed   its 
sheen, 

Though  all  beside  hath  fled, 
I  hold  it  here,  a  link  between 

My  spirit  and  the  dead. 

Yes  !  from  this  shining  ringlet  still 

A  mournful  memory  springs, 
That  melts  my  heart  and  sends  a  thrill 

Through  all  its  trembling  strings. 
I  think  of  her,  the  loved,  the  wept, 

Upon  whose  forehead  fair, 
For  eighteen  years,  like  sunshine,  slept 

This  golden  curl  of  hair. 

O  sunny  tress !  the  joyous  brow, 

Where  thou  didst  lightly  wave, 
With  all  thy  sister-tresses  now 

Lies  cold  within  the  grave; 
That  cheek  is  of  its  bloom  bereft, 

That  eye  no  more  is  gay ; 
Of  all  her  beauties  thou  art  left, 

A  solitary  ray. 

Four  years  have  passed,  this  very  June, 

Since  last  we  fondly  met" — 
Four  years !  and  yet  it  seems  too  soon 

To  let  the  heart  forget — 
Too  soon  to  let  that  lovely  face 

From  our  sad  thoughts  depart,    ' 


And  to  another  give  the  place 
She  held  within  the  heart. 

Her  memory  still  within  my  mind 

Retains  its  sweetest  power ; 
It  is  the  perfume  left  behind 

To  whisper  of  the  flower ; 
Each  blossom,  that  in  moments  gone 

Bound  up  this  sunny  curl, 
Recalls  the  form,  the  look,  the  tone 

Of  that  enchanting  girl. 

Her  step  was  like  an  April  rain 

O'er  beds  of  violets  flung  ; 
Her  voice,  the  prelude  to  a  strain 

Before  the  song  is  sung ; 
Her  life — 'twas  like  a  half-blown  flower 

Closed  ere  the  shades  of  even ; 
Her  death,  the  dawn,  the  blushing  hour, 

That  opes  the  gate  of  heaven. 

A  single  tress  !  how  slight  a  thing 

To  sway  such  magic  art, 
And  bid  each  soft  remembrance  spring 

Like  blossoms  in  the  heart ! 
It  leads  me  back  to  days  of  old, 

To  her  I  loved  so  long, 
Whose  locks  outshone  pellucid  gold, 

Whose  lips  o'erflowed  with  song. 

Since  then  I've  heard  a  thousand  lays 

From  lips  as  sweet  as  hers, 
Yet  when  I  strove  to  give  them  praise, 

I  only  gave  them  tears  ; 
I  could  not  bear,  amid  the  throng 

Where  jest  and  laughter  rung, 
To  hear  another  sing  the  song 

That  trembled  on  her  tongue. 

A  single  shining  tress  of  hair 

To  bid  such  memories  start ! 
But  tears  are  on  its  luster — there 

I  lay  it  on  my  heart : 
O !  when  in  Death's  cold  arms  I  sink, 

Who  then,  with  gentle  care, 
Will  keep  for  me  a  dark-brown  link — 

A  ringlet  of  my  hair  ? 


ERASTUS   S.    S.    ROUSE. 


ERASTUS  SEELEY  SMITH  ROUSE,  a  native  of  Rensselaer  county,  New  York, 
where  he  was  born  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  February,  1795,  is  one  of  the  few 
writers  of  the  West  who  have  made  poetry  the  pastime  and  pleasure  of  mature  age. 
He  has  been  for  twenty-five  years  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  periodicals  of  Ohio. 
In  1852  he  was  the  editor  of  The  Western  Home  Visitor,  published  at  Mount  Vernon, 
Ohio,  by  E.  A.  Higgins  &  J.  H.  Knox.  Mr.  Rouse  is  now  a  merchant  in  Mount 
Vernon. 


"WORK!  WORK!  WORK!" 

FARMER  of  the  sweaty  brow ! 

Give  not  yet  your  labor  o'er ; 
There's  no  time  for  idling  now ; 

Toil  ye  on  a  little  more. 

Ply  your  hands  with  busy  care, 
While  the  sun  is  shining  bright ; 

Briskly  drive  the  polished  share, 
Ere  the  gloaming  of  the  night. 

Labor  still — there  still  is  need, 
Pulverize  the  fruitful  soil, 

Bury  the  prolific  seed, 

Earth  shall  well  requite  your  toil. 

All  her  millions  must  be  fed, 
All  dependent  on  the  sod, 

All  must  look  to  you  for  bread, 
Faithful  steward,  be,  of  God. 

Soon  the  wint'ry  days  will  come, 
Soon  the  fields  be  clad  in  snow, 

Then  enjoy  your  happy  home, 
Then  your  wearying  toils  forego. 

Reaper  of  the  golden  grain  ! 

Guider  of  the  polished  plow! 
Not  yet  from  your  toil  refrain, 

There's  no  time  for  idling  now. 


NOTHING. 

Hail  Nothing !  thou  shapeless,  indefinite 

shade ! 

Thou  least  of  all  littleness, — mystical  maid! 
Inspire  me  with  nothing,  of  nothing  to  sing, 
And  I'll  sing  about  nothing  till  nothing 

shall  ring. 

Nothing  is  nothing, — not  easy  defined, — 
Nonentity, — absence  of  matter  and  mind: — 
"Then  nothing's  vacuity?" — yes,  friend, 

you  see, 

In  absence  of  all  things,  there  nothing  will  be. 
"And  what  is  a  vacuum  ?" — friend,  on  my 

soul, 
'Tis  the  absence  of  nothing,  confined  in  a 

hole ! 
"The   world    came   from   nothing," — but 

hark  ye,  my  friend, 

Something  from  nothing  I  can't  comprehend. 
Take  nothing  from  nothing,  and  nothing 

remains, 
And  still  you  have  nothing  at  all  for  your 

pains. 
If  naught  comes  from  nothing,  then  can  it 

be  said 
That  aught  goes  to  nothing's  impervious 

shade  ? 

Let  wise  nothingarians  the  matter  explain ; 
I'll  nothing  more  say,  since  there's  nothing 

to  gain. 
(224) 


NOBLE   BUTLER. 


NOBLE  BUTLER,  who  has  an  enviable  reputation  as  a  teacher,  and  as  an  author  of 
school  books,  and  who  ranks  high  among  scholars  in  the  West,  was  born  in  a  pioneer 
cabin  on  the  river  Monongahela,  twenty  miles  above  Pittsburg,  on  the  seventeenth  day 
of  July,  1811.  His  father,  a  farmer,  was  a  native  of  Maryland,  but  an  ancestor  of 
the  same  name  settled  in  Pennsylvania,  in  the  time  of  William  Penn.  Noble,  when 
a  young  man,  became  a  teacher  in  Indiana,  and  he  is  a  graduate  of,  and  was  for  some 
time  a  professor  in,  Hanover  College  in  that  State.  In  1836  he  was  married  at  South 
Hanover,  to  Lucinda  Harvey,  a  native  of  Kentucky. 

For  many  years  Mr.  Butler  has  been  the  principal  of  an  eminently  successful 
classical  school  in  Louisville,  Kentucky.  He  has  written  largely  for  magazines  and 
newspapers,  but  not  frequently  in  verse.  In  a  note  to  the  editor  he  says  :  "  The  Muse 
seldom  visits  me,  and  never  takes  off'  her  shawl  and  bonnet.  She  refuses  most  posi 
tively  to  go  with  me  to  the  school-room."  She  has,  however,  made  him  memorable 
visits,  and  was  certainly  on  good  terms  with  him  when  she  inspired  "  The  Blue-bird," 
which,  we  think,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  poems  of  its  class  in  our  literature. 

Mr.  Butler  has  distinguished  himself  as  a  translator  of  German  poetry,  which  has 
attracted  the  attention  of  celebrated  English  writers.  He  has  translated  Schiller's 
Poem  "  The  Longing,"  with  quite  as  much  grace  arid  with  more  exactness,  than  was 
imparted  to  it  in  a  translation  by  Bulwer ;  and  it  is  justly  claimed  for  him  that  his 
rendering  of  the  song  of  "  Thekla  "  in  Schiller's  "  Piccolomini,"  is  more  faithful  if  not 
more  beautiful  than  the  generally  accepted  translation  by  Coleridge.  In  a  note,  Cole 
ridge  acknowledges  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  translate  the  song  with  literal  fidel 
ity,  preserving  the  Alcaic  movement,  and  he  therefore  gives  a  literal  prose  translation 
as  follows : 

The  oak-forest  bellows,  the  clouds  gather,  the  damsel  walks  to  and  fro  on  the  green  of  the 
shore ;  the  wave  breaks  with  might,  with  might,  and  she  sings  out  into  the  dark  night,  her  eye  dis 
colored  with  weeping  :  the  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is  empty,  and  further  gives  it  nothing  more  to 
the  wish.  Thou  Holy  One,  call  thy  child  home.  I  have  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  this  world,  I 
have  lived  and  have  loved. 

Mr.  Butler's  translation  is  at  least  free  from  the  faults  which  make  that  by  Cole 
ridge  unacceptable  to  scholars.  It  is  in  these  words  : 

The  dark  clouds  rush  !  hear  the  forest  roar  ! 
The  maiden  wanders  along  the  shore. 
The  waves  are  breaking  with  might,  with  might ! 
And  the  maiden  sings  out  to  the  murky  night, 
Her  tear-troubled  eye  upward  roving  : 
My  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is  a  void  ; 
There  is  nothing  in  it  to  be  enjoyed. 
O  Father,  call  home  thy  child  to  thee  ; 
For  all  the  bliss  that  on  earth  can  be 

I  have  had  in  living  and  loving. 
(225) 

15 


226 


NOBLE    BUTLER. 


[1830-40. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD. 

THOUGH  Winter's  power  fades  away, 

The  tyrant  does  not  yield ; 
But  still  he  holds  a  waning  sway 

O'er  hill  and  grove  and  field. 

But  while  he  still  is  lingering, 

Some  lovely  days  appear — 
Bright  heralds  from  the  train  of  Spring, 

To  tell  that  she  is  near. 

It  is  as  if  a  day  of  heaven 

Had  fallen  from  on  high, 
And  God's  own  smiles,  for  sunlight  given, 

Were  beaming  through  the  sky. 

The  blue-bird  now,  with  joyous  note, 

His  song  of  welcome  sings ; 
Joy  swells  melodious  in  his  throat ; 

Joy  quivers  in  his  wings. 

No  cunning  show  of  art  severe, 

But  soft  and  low  his  lay — 
A  sunbeam  shining  to  the  ear — 

Spring's  softest,  brightest  ray. 

Those  magic  tones  call  from  the  past 

The  sunny  hours  of  youth ; 
And  shining  hopes  come  thronging  fast 

From  worlds  of  love  and  truth. 

The  harmony  is  seen  and  heard ; 

For  notes  and  rays  combine, 
And  joys  and  hopes,  and  sun  and  bird, 

All  seem  to  sing  and  shine. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JUDAH. 

DAUGHTER  of  Judah  !  once  in  pride 
Thou  sat'st  upon  thy  lofty  throne, 

lied. -eked  with  jewels  like  a  bride, 
The  delicate  and  comely  one ! 

And  in  the  waving  palm-tree's  shade 
Was  heard  thy  harp's  exulting  strain  ; 


Jehovah's  flock  around  thee  played, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  flowery  plain. 

Daughter  of  Judah  !  where  is  now 
The  glory  that  around  thee  shone  ? 

Where  are  the  gems  that  graced  thy  brow? 
Where  is  thy  proud  and  lofty  throne  ? 

Where  is  the  harp  whose  glad  tones  broke 
The  stillness  of  the  balmy  air? 

Where  is  the  flock,  the  lovely  flock, 
Jehovah  trusted  to  thy  care  ? 

Daughter  of  Judah !  sad  and  lone 

Thou  sit'st  in  sackcloth  on  the  ground; 

The  woods  are  vocal  with  thy  moan  ; 
The  distant  hills  thy  groans  resound. 

Thy  harp,  from  which  the  music  gushed, 
As  water  gushed  'neath  Horeb's  brow — 

That  harp  of  thine,  decayed  and  crushed, 
Hangs  voiceless  on  the  willow-bough. 

Thou  seest  no  flock  around  thee  play ; 

All,  all  the  lovely  ones  are  gone  ! 
Scattered  in  distant  lands  they  stray — 

Daughter  of  Judah,  still  weep  on ! 


LINES  FOR   MUSIC. 

SLEEP  light  gently  on  thy  breast, 
As  the  dove  upon  her  nest ! 
Many  a  golden  glowing  dream 
In  thy  happy  slumbers  gleam! 
Dream  of  fairies  on  the  green, 
In  the  moonbeam's  silver  sheen  ; 
Dream  of   rainbow-gleaming  flowers 
Rich  with  scent  of  Eden  bowers ; 
Dream  of  some  immortal  strain 
Floating  o'er  the  peaceful  main, 
From  a  far-off  lovely  isle 
Glowing  in  its  Maker's  smile  ; 
Dream  of  realms  of  love  and  peace, 
Where  the  sounds  of  discord  cease  ; 
Dream  of  angels  guarding  thee — 
Dream,  too,  dearest  one,  of  me. 


WILLIAM  ROSS  WALLACE. 


A  POEM  entitled  "  Dirge  of  Napoleon,"  which  was  declared  by  John  Neal,  in  the 
New  England  Galaxy,  to  be  "daringly  and  surprisingly  original,"  written  by  William 
Ross  Wallace,  before  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age,  gave  him  enviable  rank  among 
the  writers  of  the  West.  In  1836,  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  published  a  poem  on 
"Jerusalem,"  which  it  pronounced  "beautiful,  exceeding  beautiful."  Mr.  Wallace, 
before  he  attained  his  majority,  was  encouraged  by  these  and  other  tokens  of  success  in 
metrical  composition,  to  come  before  the  world  as  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems. 
"The  Battle  of  Tippecanoe"  and  other  Poems,*  was  published  at  Cincinnati,  by  P. 
McFarlin,  in  1837.  The  leading  poem  was  delivered  at  a  celebration  on  the  battle 
ground,  on  the  seventh  of  November,  1835.  Neither  it,  nor  any  others  of  the  twelve 
poems  which  compose  the  book,  have  been  since  acknowledged  by  their  author, 
excepting  those  above-mentioned,  though  in  the  Louisville  Journal  and  other  influen 
tial  papers,  it  was  spoken  of  as  not  merely  giving  evidence  of  genuine  power,  but  as 
containing  illustrations  of  true  genius. 

Mr.  Wallace  was  born  at  Lexington,  Kentucky,  in  1819.  His  father,  a  native  of 
Ohio,  was  a  Presbyterian  preacher.  He  died  when  William  was  about  eighteen 
months  of  age.  His  mother,  who  was  a  native  of  Pennsylvania,  still  lives  in  Ken 
tucky.  William  was  educated  at  Bloomington  and  South  Hanover  Colleges,  Indiana. 
He  read  law  in  Kentucky  and  entered  upon  its  practice  with  good  prospects,  but  was 
induced  by  literary  friends  to  emigrate  to  New  York  City,  where  he  now  resides, 
making  authorship  his  profession.  He  is  a  regular  contributor  to  Harper's  Magazine, 
the  Knickerbocker,  the  Journal  of  Commerce,  and  the  New  York  Ledger.  He  has 
published  in  New  York  three  volumes:  "Alban,  a  Metrical  Romance,"  in  1848 ;  "Medi 
tations  in  America"  and  other  poems,  in  1851;  and  "The  Loved  and  Lost,"  in  1856, 
a  volume  of  prose  and  poetry.  He  is  now  preparing  for  publication  "  The  Pleasures 
of  the  Beautiful"  and  other  poems,  and  a  national  poem  devoted  to  the  great  deeds 
and  scenery  of  our  country,  which  will  be  entitled  "  Chants  of  America." 

Mr.  Wallace  has  been  very  earnestly  encouraged  as  a  poet  by  eminent  writers. 
William  Cullen  Bryant  has  said  that  "his  poems  are  marked  by  a  splendor  of  imag 
ination  and  an  affluence  of  poetic  diction  which  show  him  the  born  poet;"  and  Edgar 
A.  Poe  declared  that  he  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  modern  poets.  He  has  written 
upon  but  a  few  topics  suggested  by  incidents  or  characters  in  Western  History. 
"Daniel  Boone"  and  lines  to  "An  American  Mound"  are  the  only  poems  of  this  class 
we  have  seen  from  his  pen,  excepting  "The  Battle  of  Tippecanoe."  His  subjects 
are  often  of  national  interest,  but  he  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  charming  songs. 
The  themes  upon  which  he  writes  with  most  power  and  beauty  arc  those  which  in 
themselves  possess  grandeur  and  require  stateliness  of  rhythm. 

*  Inscribed  to  William  Henry  Harrison. 
(  227  ) 


228 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


[1830-40. 


DANIEL  BOONE.* 

HA  !    how  the  woods  give  way  before  the 

step 

Of  these  new-comers!      What  a  sicken 
ing  smell 
Clings  round  my  cabin,  wafted  from  their 

town 

Ten  miles  away !  But  yesterday  I  heard 
A  stranger's  gun  sound  in  the  loneliest  glen 
That  yet  remains  to  me;  and  when  I 

climbed 

The  mountain  there,  and  stood  alone,  alone ! 
Upon  its  top  amid  the  sounding  clouds, 
And  proudly  thought  that  I  was  first  to 

crown 

That  mighty  mountain  with  a  human  soul, 
Another's  foot-print  in  the  airy  sand 
Smote  my  unwilling  eyes,  and  I  at  once 
Was  scepterless,  unthroned,  there  beaten 

back 
To  restless  thought  again.      This  cannot 

last: 
For  I  am  of  the  mould  that  loathes  to 

breathe 

The  air  of  multitudes,     I  must  respire 
The  Universe  alone,  and  hear,  alone, 
Its  Lord  walking  the  ancient  wilderness ; 
And   this,  because  He  made  me  so — no 

more. 

I  must  away :  for  action  is  my  life  ; 
And  it  is  base  to  triumph  in  a  Past, 
However  big  with  mighty  circumstance, 
Danger  full-faced  and  large  heroic  deed, 
If  yet  a  Future  calls.     It  calls  to  me. 
What  if  some  seventy  years  have  thinned 

this  hair, 
And   dimmed   this   sight,  and   made   the 

blood  roll  on 

Less  riotous  between  the  banks  of  life? — 
This  heart  hath  vigor  yet,  and  still  the 

woods 


*  Inscribed  to  Cassiim  M.  Clay. 


Have  voices  for  my  ear;    and  still   the 

stream 
Makes  music  in  my  thought ;   and  every 

hour 

Can  show  some  awful  miracle  performed 
Within  the  wilderness ;  and  Danger  still 
Leans  proudly  o'er  the  mountain's  dizzy 

crag, 

Bathing  his  forehead  in  the  passing  cloud, 
And  calls  to  me  with  a  most  taunting  voice 
To  join  him  there.  He  shall  not  call  in 

vain. 

Yes !     Surely  I  must  go,  and  drink  anew 
The  splendor  that  is  in  the  pathless  woods, 
And  wear  the  blue  sky  as  a  coronal, 
And  bid  the  torrent  sound  my  conquering 

march, 

And  ponder  far  away  from  all  that  mars 
The  everlasting  wonder  of  the  world, 
And  with  each  dewy  morning  wake  and 

feel 

As  though  that  world,  so  fresh,  so  beautiful 
With  sunrise  and  the  mist,  had  just  been 

made. 

Farewell,  0  dweller  of  the  towns !    One 

State 

Have  I  made  eminent  within  the  wild, 
And  men  from  me  have  that  which  they 

call  "Peace:" 

Still  do  the  generations  press  for  room, 
And  surely  they  shall  have  it.     Tell  them 

this  : 
Say  "  Boone,  the  old  State-Builder,  hath 

gone  forth 

Again,  close  on  the  sunset ;  and  that  there 
He  gives  due  challenge  to  that  Indian  race 
Whose  lease  to  this  majestic  land,  misused, 
It  hath  pleased  God  to  cancel.  There  he 

works — 

Away  from  all  his  kind,  but  for  his  kind — 
Unseen,  as  Ocean's  current  works  unseen, 
Piling  huge  deltas  up,  where  men  may  rear 
Their  cities  pillared  fair,  with  many  a  mart 
And  stately  dome  o'ershadowing" — should 

they  ask 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


229 


"What  guerdon   Boone  would  have?" — 

then  answer  thus : 

"A  little  wilderness  left  sacred  there 
For  him  to  die  in  ;  else  the  poor  old  man 
Must  seek  that  lonely  sea  whose  billows 

turn 

To  mournful  music  on  the  Oregon, 
And  in  its  desolate  waters  find  a  grave." 
So — but  I  was  not  made  for  talk — Fare 
well! 


AVELINE— A  SONG. 

LOVE  me  dearly,  love  me  dearly  with  your 

heart  and  with  your  eyes ; 
Whisper  all  your  sweet  emotions,  as  they 

gushing,  blushing  rise : 
Throw  your  soft  white  arms  about  me ; 
Say  you  cannot  live  without  me : 
Say,  you  are  my  Aveline ;    say,  that  you 

are  only  mine, 
That  you  cannot  live  without  me,  young 

and  rosy  Aveline ! 

Love'  me   dearly,  dearly,  dearly:    speak 

your  love-words  silver-clearly, 
So  I   may  not  doubt  thus  early  of  your 

fondness,  of  your  truth. 
Press,  oh !    press   your   throbbing   bosom 

closely,  warmly  to  my  own : 
Fix  your  kindled  eyes  on  mine — say  you 

live  for  me  alone, 
While  I  fix  my  eyes  on  thine, 
Lovely,  trusting,  artless,  plighted ;  plighted, 

rosy  Aveline ! 

Love  me  dearly ;  love  me  dearly :  radiant 

dawn  upon  my  gloom : 
Ravish  me  with  beauty's  bloom : — 
Tell  me  "  Life  has  yet  a  glory :  'tis  not  all 

an  idle  story  ! " 
As  a  gladdened  vale  in  noonlight;    as    a 

weary  lake  in  moonlight, 


Let  me  in  thy  love  recline : 
Show  me  life   has  yet  a  splendor  in  my 
tender  Aveline. 

Love  me  dearly,  dearly,  dearly  with  your 

heart  and  with  your  eyes : 
Whisper  all  your  sweet  emotions  as  they 

gushing,  blushing  rise. 
Throw  your  soft  white  arms  around  me ; 

say  you  lived  not  till  you  found  me — 
Say  it,  say  it,  Aveline  !    whisper  you  are 

only  mine ; 
That  you  cannot  live  without  me,  as  you 

throw  your  arms  about  me, 
That  you  cannot  live  without  me,  artless, 

rosy  Aveline ! 


SONG  OF  A  LEAF, 

FROM   CLIFTY   FALLS,   NEAR  HANOVER   COLLEGE. 
I. 

WHEN  plucked  from  off  my  natal  bough, 

I  would  have  sighed  but  that  I  knew 
The  rifling  one  intended  me 

As  his  sweet  offering  to  you, 
To  you  who  stood  in  youth  beneath 

My  parent-tree  beside  the  Fall, 
Whose  crystal  trumpets  still  to  crag 

And  leaning  cloud  sonorous  call. 

ii. 

Ah,  well  I  know  why  he  would  send 

The  humble  little  leaf  to  thee — 
For  still  thy  visits  dwell  within 

The  memory  of  my  parent-tree, 
That  whispers  oft  of  all  those  hours, 

Those  innocent  hours  of  woodland  joy, 
Of   friendship's    clasp,    of    young    love's 
tryst, 

When  you  were  yet  an  ardent  boy. 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


[1830-40. 


III. 

Ah,  well  that  tree  remembers  them ! 

And  still  she  whispers  of  the  time 
AY  hen  couched  beneath  the  branches  there, 

You,    trembling,    wove    your    earliest 

rhyme ; 
The  branches  shook  all  o'er  with  bliss ; 

The  cataract  louder  hailed  the  morn — 
They  thought  "  perchance,  this  hour,  near 
us 

Another  poet-soul  is  born ! " 

IV. 

I  know  the  morning  of  thy  heart, 

With  all  its  dear  young  rhythm,  is  past ; 
I  know  the  yellow  leaves  of  death 

Are  on  your  coffined  comrade  cast ;  * 
And  she  the  pure,  the  beautiful, 

Sunk  long  ago  to  shrouded  sleep ; 
And  age,  and  sorrow  dim — but,  no! 

1  will  not  sing  if  thus  you  weep. 

v. 

Why  weep  ? — the  glorious  girl  and  friend 

Are  waiting  you  on  Eden-hills, 
Where  summer  is  forever  nooned, 

And  gone  all  weight  of  earthly  ills ! 
Thy  poesies  if  not  so  glad, 

Yet  with  Experience  deeper  chime : 
The  highest  thought  from  sorrow  comes, 

And  large  humanity  with  time. 

VI. 

Then  weep  for  these  no  more ! — I  feel 

My  life  ebbs  with  each  word  I  sing, 
And,  like  my  early  friend  and  love, 

My  heart  to  death  is  withering : 
One  guerdon  only  would  I  ask — 

Lay  me  when  dead — as  on  a  shrine — 
On    that    first    song    your    young    heart 
breathed 

To  your  own  dear,  lost  Aveline ! 


*  Hon.  John  Jenkins,  of  Mississippi,  who  was  a  student 
at  South  Hanover.  He  was  remarkable  for  superb  mind 
and  manly  amiability. 


THE  GRANDEUR  OF  REPOSE. 

So  rest !  and  Rest  shall  slay  your  many 

woes;    • 

Motion  is  god-like — god-like  is  repose, 
A  mountain-stillness  of  majestic  might, 
Whose  peaks  are  glorious  with  the  quiet 

light 

Of  suns  when  Day  is  at  his  solemn  close. 
Nor  deem  that  slumber  must  ignoble  be. 
Jove  labored  lustily  once  in  airy  fields ; 
And  over  the  cloudy  lea 
He  planted  many  a  budding  shoot 
Whose  liberal  nature  daily,  nightly  yields 
A  store  of  starry  fruit : 
His  labor  done,  the  weary  god  went  back 
Up  the  long  mountain-track 
To  his  great  house ;  there  he  did  while  away 
With  lightest  thought  a  well-won  holiday  ; 
For  all  the  Powers  crooned  softly  an  old  tune, 
Wishing  their  Sire  might  sleep 
Through  all  the  sultry  noon 
And  cold  blue  night ;  and  very  soon 
They  heard  the  awful  Thunderer  breathing 

low  and  deep : 
And  in  the  hush  that  dropped  adown  the 

spheres, 

And  in  the  quiet  of  the  awe-struck  space, 
The  worlds  learned  worship  at  the  birth 

of  years  : 

They  looked  upon  their  Lord's  calm,  king 
ly  face, 
And  bade  Religion   come  and  kiss  each 

starry  place. 


DUTY  IN  SORROW. 

WAS  He  not  sad  amid  the  grief  and  strife, 
The  Lord  of  light  and  life, 
Whose  torture  made  humanity  divine 
Upon  that  woful  hill  of  Palestine  ? 
Then  is  it  not  far  better  thus  to  be 

Thoughtful,  and  brave,  and  melancholy, 
Than  given  up  to  idiot  revelry 

Amid  the  unreligious  brood  of  folly  ? 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


231 


For  our  sorrow  is  a  worship,  worship  true, 
and  pure,  and  calm, 

Sounding  from  the  choir  of  duty  like  a 
high,  heroic  psalm, 

In  its  very  darkness  bearing  to  the  bleed 
ing  heart  a  balm. 

Brothers,  we  must  have  no  wailing :  do  we 
agonize  alone  ? 

Look  at  all  the  pallid  millions ;  hear  a  uni 
versal  moan, 

From  the  mumbling,  low-browed  Bush 
man  to  a  Lytton  on  his  throne. 

Nor  shall  we  have  coward  faltering: 
Brothers  !  we  must  be  sublime 

By  due  labor  at  the  forges  blazing  in  the 
cave  of  time : 

Knowing  life  was  made  for  duty,  and  that 
only  cowards  prate 

Of  a  search  for  Happy  Valleys  and  the 
hard  decrees  of  fate : 

Seeing  through  this  night  of  mourning  all 
the  future  as  a  star, 

And  a  joy  at  last  appearing  on  the  centu 
ries  afar, 

When  the  meaning  of  the  sorrow,  when 
the  mystery  shall  be  plain, 

When  the  Earth  shall  see  her  rivers  rol] 
through  Paradise  again. 

O  !  the  vision  gives  to  sorrow  something 
white  and  purple-plumed : 

Even  the  hurricane  of  Evil  comes  a  hurri 
cane  perfumed. 


THE  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  DYING  WIFE. 

BE  gentle,  gentle !  she  will  soon 

Pass  from  my  sight  away  ; 
Gently,  most  gently  !  soon  the  light 

Must  leave  the  lovely  clay, 
Making  me  desolate.  Awhile 
I  shall  behold  her  tender  smile 

Beam  like  an  Eden-ray  ; 
And  I  must  walk,  when  it  has  flown, 
Along  the  world's  great  paths  alone. 


I  will  be  gentle  as  the  wind 
That  comes  from  out  the  West 

On  soft,  low-murmuring  wings  to  lay 
A  dying  rose  to  rest. 

I'll  walk  about  her  couch  as  mild 

As  leaves  a-falling  in  a  wild 
That  takes  its  Autumn-guest ; 

Or  sit  and  watch  her  feeble  breath, 

As  calm  as  Love  can  watch  for  death. 

Pale,  beauteous  one !  I  know  full  well 

Thy  heart  is  also  wrung, 
That  round  the  bridal  rose  a  wreath 

Of  solemn  cypress  clung ; 
X  know  it  by  a  mournful  sign, 
For    when   thy   thin    white   hand's   in 
mine, 

It  trembles  like  a  bird  among 
The  icy  branches,  while  she  knows 
That  winter  calleth  to  repose : 

I  know  it  by  the  tender  tone 

That  shades  thy  voice ;  for  thou 
Didst  try  to  speak  some  words  to  me 

Last  night  when  on  thy  brow 
I  pressed  a  mournful  kiss.     Thy  word 
Went  oif  into  the  past,  unheard, 

As  day  is  passing  now  ; 
But  yet  its  music  spoke  of  grief, 
And  bridal  hours  which  were  so  brief. 

0,  dear  one !  when  thy  form  is  cold, 

And  heaven  hath  won  my  star ; 
When  I  must  struggle  on  through  life, 

Impatient  of  its  war ; 
How  can  I  walk  in  lonely  eves, 
Under  the  old  familiar  leaves, 
Knowing  that  thou  'rt  afar  ? 
And  yet  where  else,  when  thou  'rt  away, 
Can  I  go  out  to  weep  and  pray  ? 

Now  listen,  love  !  one  hope  alone, 

Life  of  my  life !  can  cheer 
My  tortured  soul  when  thou  hast  gone 

Into  the  upper  sphere — 


232 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


[1830-40. 


That  thou,  even  there,  where  spirits  dwell 
On  fields  of  fadeless  asphodel, 

By  glory's  large,  bright  mere — 
That  even  there,  in  God's  pure  climes, 
Thou,  thou  wilt  think  of  me  sometimes. 

0,  dearest !  when  I  too  shall  go, 
Thy  heaven's  resplendent  things 

May  dance  upon  my  startled  sight, 
Like  strange  and  brilliant  wings, 

Confusedly  ;  then  come,  my  love  ! 

Come  swiftly  from  thy  house  above 
To  me  with  minist'rings, 

And  kiss  me  on  my  brightening  brow, 

Thus,  thus  as  I  do  kiss  thee  now. 


AUTUMN. 

GLOOMILY  strikes  the  coward  Blast 

On  the  sad  face  of  the  Mere : 
To  and  fro  are  the  dead  leaves  cast — 

To  and  fro : 

The  Year  is  now  but  a  dying  Year — 
The  poor  old  heir  of  an  icy  bier ! 

As  he  goes,  we  must  go. 

They  have  said  in  a  glorious  Land  away, 

In  a  Land  beyond  the  sea, 
That  as  Autumn  here  has  gorgeous  hues, 

We  should  paint  her  gorgeously. 
I  know  that  the  Frost-King  brightly  sheens 

The  mazy  wood  in  the  cool,  calm  eves, 
And  at  morning  the  Autumn  proudly  leans 

Like  a  glorious  woman  on  the  leaves ; 
But  the  hue  on  her  cheek  is  a  hectic  hue, 

And  the  splendor  soon  must  leave  her 

eyes, 
And  a  mist  creep  over  the  orbs  of  blue, 

Whenever  the  rainbow-luster  flies 
From  the  larch  and  the  ash  and  the  maple 
tree, 

And  the  orchis  dies,  and  the  aster  dies, 
And  the  rain  falls  drearily. 


The  rain  comes  down  on  the  lonely  Mere, 
And  the  mist  goes  up  from  the  wave, 

And  the  pale  west  Wind  sobs  low  and  drear 
At  night  o'er  the  little  grave ; 

Like  a  weeping  mother  the  pale  Wind  sobs 
Over  the  little  grave. 

Then  the  trees — that  gave,  in  the  summer 
time, 

Each  one  his  different  tone, 
This  glad  and  proud  as  a  cymbal's  chime, 

That  making  a  harp-like- moan — 
All  falling  in  with  the  Wind  that  grieves 
O'er  the  little  grave  and  the  withered  leaves, 

Together  make  a  moan, 
While  the  desolate  moon  weeps  half  the 
night 

In  a  misty  sky  alone  ; 
Not  a  star  to  be  seen  in  the  misty  night — 

The  moon  and  the  sky  alone. 
Yet  a  grandeur  broods  over  all  the  woe, 

And  music's  in  every  moan — 
As  through  the  forest-pass  I  go, 

The  cloud  and  I  alone ; 
I  face  the  blast  and  I  croon  a  song, 

An  old  song  dear  to  me, 
Because  I  know  that  the  song  was  made 
By  a  Poet — now  in  the  graveyard  laid — 

Who  was  fashioned  tenderly. 

O,   great,   mild   Heart!  —  0,   pale,   dead 
Bard! 

For  thee  on  the  withered  grass, 
When  the  Autumn  comes,  and  the  pale 

Wind  counts, 

Like  a  weak,  wan  nun,  with  fingers  cold, 
Her  string  of  leaves  by  the  forest  founts, 

I  chant  a  Poet's  mass ; 
And  the  mist  goes  up  like  incense  rolled, 
And  the  trees  bow  down  like  friars  stoled. 

Away  ! — away  !  for  the  mass  is  said, 
And  it  breaks  the  heart  to  think  long  of 

the  dead : 

But  where  can  I  go  that  the  Winds  do 
not  sing  ? 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


233 


To  the  house?     Ah!  there  they  will  knock 

at  the  doors, 

Or  stalk,  with  a  pale-mouthed  muttering, 
Like  ghosts  through  the  lonesome  corridors. 

O,  Land  away  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea ! 

The  good  God  loves  us  too  : 
The  Year  is  with  us  as  it  is  with  thee — 

For  he  weareth  every  hue. 
It  is  from  the  darkness  and  the  blight, 
That  we  love  the  bloom  and  we  know  the 
light. 

Gloomily  strikes  the  coward  Blast 

On  the  sad  face  of  the  Mere  : 
To  and  fro  are  the  dead  leaves  cast, 

To  and  fro  : 

The  Year  is  now  but  a  dying  Year — 
The  poor  old  heir  of  an  icy  bier ! 
As  he  goes,  we  must  go. 


THE  GODS  OF  OLD.* 

NOT  realmless  sit  the  ancient  Gods 

Upon  their  mountain-thrones 
In  that  old  glorious  Grecian  Heaven 

Of  regal  zones. 
A  languor  o'er  their  stately  forms 

May  lie, 
And  a  sorrow  on  their  wide  white  brows, 

King-dwellers  of  the  Sky ! 
But  theirs  is  still  that  great  imperial  throng 

Of  starry  thoughts  and  firm  but  quiet  wills, 
That  murmured  past  the  blind  old  King  of 
Song, 

When  staring  round  him  on  the  Thun 
derer's  hills. 

They  cannot  fade,  though  other  creeds 
Came  burdened  with  their  curse, 

And  One's  apotheosis  was 
A  darkened  Universe. 


Inscribed  to  John  Bell  Bouton. 


No  tempest  heralded  His  orient  light ; 
No  fiery  portent  walked  the  solemn  night ; 
No  conqueror's  blood-red  banner  was  un 
furled  ; 

No  volcan  shook  its  warning  torch  on  high ; 
No  earthquake  tore  the  pulses  of  the  world ; 

No  pale  sun  wandered  through  a  swarthy 

sky; 

Only  the  conscious  Spheres 
Amid  the  silence  shed  some  joyous  tears, 
And  then,  as  rainbows  come,  He  came 
With  morning's  rosy  flame. 
The  Stars  looked  from  their  palaces  whose 
spires 

And  windows  caught  afar  the  prophet- 
glow, 

And  bade  their  choirs  sing  to  the  sweetest 
lyres 

"Peace  and  Good  Will  unto  the  Orb 

below." 
Jove  shuddered  and  turned  sick  at  heart, 

And  from  his  white  hands  fell 
The  scepter  with  a  thunderous  sound 

Before  that  miracle : 
Ah,  sick  at  soul !  but  they,  the  Bards — 

Song's  calm  Immortals — in  the  eclipse 
Thronged  up  and  held  the  nectar  cup 

To  his  pale  lips. 
Then  falling  back,  and  taking  lower  thrones, 
That  glistened  round  the  heavenly  zones, 
At  first  the  minstrels  lightly  stirr'd 

Certain  melodious  strings, 
While  the  startled  tempest-bearing  bird 

Poised  tremblingly  his  wings : 
But  loftier  soon  their  harps  resounded, 

And  louder  yet  their  voices  rolled 
Among  the  arches,  and  rebounded 

From  all  the  roofs  of  gold. 

HYMN    OF    THE    BARDS. 
I. 

"Ye  cannot  leave  your  throne'd  spheres 

Though  Faith  is  o'er, 
And  a  mightier  One  than  Jove  appears 

On  Earth's  expectant  shore," — 


234 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


[1830-40. 


Slowly  the  daring  words  went  trampling 

through  the  halls. 

••  Nor  in  the  Earth,  nor  Hell,  nor  Sky, 
The  Ideal.  O  ye  Gods !  can  ever  die, 

But  to  the  soul  of  man  unceasing  calls. 


II. 

"  Still  Jove  shall  wrap 
His  awful  eyebrows  in  Olympian  shrouds, 

Or   take  along  the  Heaven's  dark  wil 
derness 

His  thunder-chase  behind  the  hunted  Clouds. 
And  mortal  eyes  upturned  shall  behold 
Apollo's  robe  of  gold 
Sweep  through  the  long  blue  corridor  of 

the  sky 

That,  kindling,  speaks  its  Deity : 
And  He,  the  Ruler  of  the  Sunless  Land 

Of  restless  ghosts,  shall  fitfully  illume 
With  smouldering  fires,  that  stir  in  cav- 
erned  eyes, 

Hell's  mournful  House  of  Gloom. 


III. 

"  Still  the  ethereal  Huntress,  as  of  old, 
Shall   roam   amid   the    sacred   Latmos 

mountains, 

And  lave  her  virgin  limbs  in  waters  cold 
That  Earth  holds  up  for  her  in  marble 

fountains. 
And,  in  his  august  dreams  along  the  Italian 

streams, 
That  poor  old  Saturn,  with  his  throneless 

frown, 
Will  feebly  grasp  the  air  for  his  lost  crown, 


Or  pause  to  hear,  amid  the  horrent  shades, 
The  deep,  hoarse  cry  of  Battle's  hungry 

Blades 

Led  by  the  thirsty  Spear — 
Till  at  the  weary  Combat's  close 
They  give  their  passionate  thanks 
Amid  the  panting  ranks  of  conquered  foes — 
Then,  drunken  with  their  god's  red  wine, 
Go  swooning  to  repose  around  his  purple 

shrine. 


v. 

"And  He,  the  Trident-wielder,  still  shall  see 

The  adoring   Billows  kneel  around  his 

feet, 
While  at  his  nod  the  Winds  in  ministry 

Before  their  altar  of  the  Tempest  meet : 
Or — leaning  gently  over  Paphian  isles, 
Cheered  by  the  music  of  some  Triton's  horn 
Hailing  the  opening  rose  of  Morn — 
Lift  up  the  starry  curtain  of  the  Night 

To  its  dim  window  tops  above, 
And  bathe  thy  dewy  eyelids  with  the  light, 

Voluptuous  Queen  of  Love ! 
And  thou,  ah,  thou  ! 

Awaking  from  thy  slumber,  thou  shalt  press 
Thy  passionate  lips  upon  the  Sea- Lord's 

brow 
In  some  sweet,  lone  recess, 


Where    waters 
leaves  bow. 


murmur   and   the   dim 


And  young  Endymion 

At  Night's  ethereal  noon, 

Shall  still  be  watched  o'er  by  the  love-sick 

Moon, 

Then  murmur  sadly  low  of  his  great  over-^Tio  thrills  to  find  him  in  some  lonely  vale 

Before  her  silver  lamp  may  fail : 
And  Pan  shall  play  his  pleasant  reeds 

Down  in  the  lonesome  glen, 
And  young-eyed  Fauns  on  charmed  meads 

Waylay  Muse-haunted  men. 


throw. 


IV. 


"  ^  rapt  in  his  sounding  mail  shall  he 
appear, 

War'-  Charioteer! 

And  where  the  conflict  reels 

Urge  through  the  swaying  lines  his  crash 
ing  wheel-  : 


VI. 

Nor  absent  She  whose  eyes  of  azure  throw 
Truth's  sun-burst  on  the  world  below — 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


235 


Seen  by  the  Titan  in  his  pains 

Wrought  by  the  frost,  the  vulture  and  the 

chains : 
Yes,  Titan  still,  despite  of  Jove's  red  ire, 

"Who  sees,  through  calm  and  storm, 
Earth's  ancient  vales  rejoicing  in  his  fire, 
The  homes  and  loves  of  men — those  beings 

wrought 

To  many  a  beauteous  form 
In  the  grand  quiet  of  his  own  great  thought. 
And  over  all,  white,  beautiful,  serene, 
And  changeless  in  thy  prime, 
Thou,  Psyche,  shalt  be  seen 
Whispering  forever  that  one  word  sublime, 
Down  the  dim  peopled  galleries  of  Time — 
'  Eternity  ! '  in  whose  dread  circle  stand 
Men  and  their  Deities  alike  on  common 

land." 


Like  far-off  stars  that  glimmer  in  a  cloud, 
Deathless,  O  Gods !  shall  ye  illume  the 

Past: 

To  ye  the  poet-voice  will  call  aloud, 
"Faithful  among  the  faithless"  to  the 
last. 

Ye  must  not  die ! 

Long  as  the  dim  robes  of  the  Ages  trail 
O'er  Ida's  steep,  or  Tempe's  flowery  vale, 

Ye  shall  not  die ! 
Your  mouldering  Delphos  only  did  make 

moan, 

And  feel  eclipse 
Fall   like   a  storm-cloud   from   Jehovah's 

throne 

Upon  her  withered  lips. 
Though  time  and  tempest  your  old  temples 

rend, 

And  rightly  men  to  our  One  Only  bend, 
Ye  were  the  forms  in  which  the  ancient 

mind 

Its  darkling  sense  of  Deity  enshrined. 
No  pious  hand  need  weave  your  royal  palls : 
To  Sinai  now  Olympus,  reverent,  calls, 
And    Ida   leans  to  hear  Mount  Zion's 
voice. 


Gods  of  the  Past !  your  shapes  are  in  our 

halls, 

Upon  our  clime  your  glorious  presence  falls, 
And  Christian  hearts  with  Grecian  souls 

rejoice. 


THE  LIBERTY  BELL.* 

A  SOUXD  like  a  sound  of  thunder  rolled, 

And  the  heart  of  a  nation  stirred — 
For  the  bell  of  Freedom,  at  midnight  tolled, 
Through  a  mighty  land  was  heard. 
And  the  chime  still  rung 
From  its  iron  tongue 
Steadily  swaying  to  and  fro ; 
And  to  some  it  came 
Like  a  breath  of  flame — 
And  to  some  a  sound  of  wo. 

Above  the  dark  mountain,  above  the  blue 

wave 
It  was  heard  by  the  fettered,  and  heard  by 

the  brave — 
It  was  heard  in  the  cottage,  and  heard  in 

the  hall— 
And  its  chime  gave  a  glorious  summons  to 

all— 
The  saber  was  sharpened — the  time-rusted 

blade 

Of  the  Bond  started  out  in  the  pioneer's  glade 
Like  a  herald  of  wrath :  And  the  host  was 

arrayed ! 
Along  the  dark  mountain,  along  the  blue 

wave 
Swept  the  ranks  of  the  Bond — swept  the 

ranks  of  the  Brave  ; 
And  a  shout  as  of  waters  went  up  to  the  dome, 

When  a  star-blazing  banner  unfurled, 
Like  the  wing  of  some  Seraph  flashed  out 

from  his  home, 
Uttered  freedom  and  hope  to  the  world. 


Rung  in  Philadelphia  on  the  passage  of  the  Declara 
tion  of  Independence. 


236 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


[1830-40. 


O'er  the  hill-top  and  tide  its  magnificent  fold, 
With  a  terrible  glitter  of  azure  and  gold 
In  the  storm,  in  the  sunshine,  and  darkness 

unrolled. 
It  blazed  in  the  valley — it  blazed  on  the 

mast — 

It  leaped  with  its  Eagle  abroad  on  the  blast ; 
And  the  eyes  of  whole  nations  were  turned 

to  its  light ; 

And  the  heart  of  the  multitude  soon 
Was  swayed  by  its  stars,  as  they  shone 

through  the  night 
Like  an  ocean  when  swayed  by  the  moon. 

Again    through   the   midnight   that    Bell 

thunders  out, 
And    banners    and    torches   are   hurried 

about : — 

A  shout  as  of  waters !  a  long-uttered  cry  ! 
How  it  leaps,' how  it  leaps  from  the  earth 

to  the  sky! 
From  the  sky  to  the  earth,  from  the  earth 

to  the  sea, 
Hear  a  chorus  re-echoed,  "  The  People  are 

Free!" 
That  old  Bell  is  still  seen  by  the  Patriot's 

eye, 

And  he  blesses  it  ever,  when  journeying  by ; 
Long  years  have  passed  o'er  it,  and  yet 

every  soul 

Will  thrill  in  the  night  to  its  wonderful  roll; 
For  it  speaks  in  its  belfry,  when  kissed  by 

the  blast, 

Like  a  glory-breathed  tone  from  the  mys 
tical  Past. 
Long  years  shall  roll  o'er  it,  and  yet  every 

chime 

Shall  unceasingly  tell  of  an  era  sublime 
More  splendid,  more  dear  than  the  rest  of 

all  time. 

O  yes !  if  the  flame  on  our  altars  should  pale, 
Let  its  voice  but  be  heard,  and  the  Free 
man  shall  start 

To  rekindle  the  fire,  while  he  sees  on  the  gale, 
All  the  stars  and  the  stripes  of  the  Flag 

of  his  heart ! 


THE  NORTH  EDDA. 

NOBLE  was  the  old  North  Edda, 
Filling  many  a  noble  grave, 

That  "for  Man  the  one  thing  needful 
In  his  world  is  to  be  brave." 

This  the  Norland's  blue-eyed  mother 
Nightly  chanted  to  her  child, 

While  the  Sea-King,  grim  and  stately, 
Looked  upon  his  boy  and  smiled. 

And  the  boy,  grown  up  a  Sea-King, 
Grasped  the  old  ancestral  spear — 

Ever  in  the  Jotun-battle 

Foremost,  only  fearing  Fear. 

If  the  Valkyrs  did  not  choose  him 

In  some  combat  for  the  dead — 
If,  when  old,  and  gray,  and  wasted, 

He  was  dying  in  his  bed— 
He  would  bid  the  kings  to  lay  him 

In  his  ship,  and  spread  her  sail — 
Then,  with  slow  fire  burning,  give  her 

To  the  white  god  of  the  gale. 

So  he  went,  a  death-hymn  breathing 
Feebly  in  his  snowy  beard — 

So  by  fire  within  the  Ocean 
Was  the  Ocean-King  interred. 

Odin  crowned  his  stately  spirit 
In  the  Hero's  hall  of  shells, 

Far  away  from  Hela's  darkness 
And  the  coward's  hell  of  hells. 

Let  us  learn  that  old  North  Edda, 
Chanted  grandly  on  the  grave : 

Still  for  Man  the  one  thing  needful 
In  his  world  is  to  be  brave. 

Valkyrs  yet  are  forth  and  choosing 
Who  must  be  among  the  slain : 


1830-40.] 


WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 


237 


Let  us,  like  that  grim  old  Sea- King, 
Smile  at  Death  upon  the  plain : 

Smile  at  tyrants  leagued  with  falsehood, 
Knowing  Truth,  eternal,  stands 

With  the  Book,  God  wrote  for  Freedom, 
Always  open  in  her  hands ; 

Smile  at  fear  when  in  our  duty ; 

Smile  at  Slander's  Jotun-breath  ; 
Smile  upon  our  shrouds  when  summoned 

Down  the  darkling  deep  of  Death. 

Valor  only  grows  a  manhood — 

Only  this  upon  our  sod 
Keeps  us  in  the  golden  shadow 

Falling  from  the  throne  of  God. 


THE  AMERICAN  BANNER. 


FLAG  of  the  valiant  and  the  tried ! 
Where  Marion  fought  and  Warren  died ; 
Flag  of  the  mountain  and  the  lake ! 

Of  rivers  rolling  to  the  sea 
In  that  broad  grandeur  fit  to  make 

The  symbols  of  eternity ! 
0,  fairest  flag !  O,  dearest  land  ! 

Who  shall  your  banded  children  sever? 
God  of  our  fathers  !  here  we  stand, 
From  Plymouth's  rock  to  Georgia's  strand — 
Heart   pressed  to  heart,  hand   linked   in 
hand — 

And  swear — "  The  Union  lives  forever ! " 

IT. 

Still,  untorn  banner  of  the  free, 
The  nations  turn  with  hope  to  thee ! 


And  when  at  home  thy  shadow  falls 
Along  the  armory's  trophied  walls, 
The  ancient  trumpets  long  for  breath, 

The  dinted  sabers  fiercely  start 
To  vengeance  from  each  clanging  sheath, 

As  if  they  sought  some  traitor's  heart! 


ill. 

O,  sacred  banner  of  the  brave ! 

O,  standard  of  ten  thousand  ships ! 
O,  guardian  of  Mount  Vernon's  grave ! 

Come,  let  us  press  thee  to  our  lips ! 
There  is  a  trembling  of  the  rocks — 
New  England  feels  the  patriot-shocks  ; 
There  is  a  trembling  of  the  lakes — 
The  West,  with  all  the  South  awakes ; 
And  lo  !  on  high  the  glorious  shade 

Of  Washington  lights  all  the  gloom. 
And  points  unto  these  words,  arrayed 

In  lines  of  fire  around  his  tomb: 
"Americans  !  your  fathers  shed 

Their  blood  to  rear  the  Union's  fane ; 
For  this  their  fearless  banners  spread 

On  many  a  gory  plain. 
Americans  !   O,  will  ye  dare, 

On  mountain,  prairie,  valley,  flood, 
By  hurling  down  their  glorious  gift, 

To  desecrate  that  blood  ? 
The  right  shall  live  while  Faction  dies ; 

All  traitors  draw  a  fleeting  breath; 
But  patriots  drink  from  God's  own  eyes 

Truth's  light,  that  conquers  death!" 

IV. 

Then,  dearest  flag  and  dearest  land, 

Who  shall  your  banded  children  sever  ? 
God  of  our  fathers !  here  we  stand, 
From  Plymouth's  rock  to  Georgia's  strand — 
Heart   pressed  to   heart,  hand   linked   in 

hand — 
And  swear — "  The  Union  lives  forever." 


THOMAS   GREGG. 


THOMAS  GREGG  was  born  at  Belmont,  Belmont  county,  Ohio,  on  the  fourteenth 
day  of  December,  1808.  He  received  his  education  in  the  district  schools  of  his 
native  county,  and  in  a  printing-office  at  the  county  town,  St.  Clairsville.  He  was 
apprenticed  to  Horton  J.  Howard,  printer  and  publisher  of  The  National  Historian. 
In  1833,  Mr.  Gregg  published  and  edited,  at  St.  Clairsville,  twelve  numbers  of  a 
monthly  magazine,  which  he  called  The  Literary  Cabinet.  A  spirit  of  adventure 
then  led  him  to  emigrate  to  the  remote  West,  and,  in  1838,  he  published,  at  Montrose, 
in  Wisconsin  Territory,  The  Western  Adventurer.  Meantime  he  was  a  contributor  to 
the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  to  The  Hesperian.  Between  1840  and  1850,  he  was  for 
several  years  connected  with  The  Signal,  at  Warsaw,  Illinois,  and  is  now  publisher 
and  editor  of  The  Representative,  at  Hamilton,  in  that  State. 


SONG  OF  THE  WINDS. 

THE   STORM. 

I  COME,  I  come — with  power  and  might, 
On  swiftest  pinion,  in  angry  flight ; 

My  form  I  shroud 

In  the  murky  cloud, 

And  over  the  deep 

In  fury  I  sweep  ; 

I  fell  the  tower,  and  I  rend  the  oak, 
That  withstood  the  power  of  the  lightning's 

stroke, — 

And  man  in  his  boasted  strength  is  weak, 
When  I  in  my  loudest  fury  speak  ; 
And  stream  and  flood  and  forest  and  field 
To  the  strength  of  my  might  and  will  must 

yield : 

But  whence  I  come,  or  where  I  go, 
Tis  not  for  dwellers  of  earth  to  know. 

THE   BREEZE. 

I  come,  I  come — from  the  far-off  land, 
Where  the   salt    spray  laves  the   pebbly 
strand ; 


My  wings  are  laden 

With  odors  sweet, 

The  fairest  forms 

Of  earth  to  greet ; 
I  swell  the  sail  of  the  gallant  ship, 
As  she  proudly  skims  the  surging  deep ; 
And  I  sing  a  song  of  joy  and  mirth, 
As  I  pass  along  o'er  the  silent  earth ; 
And  stream  and  flood  and  forest  and  field 
Ever  to  my  mild  dominion  yield : 
But  whence  I  come,  or  where  I  go, 
'Tis  not  for  the  sons  of  earth  to  know. 

THE   ZEPHYR. 

I  come,  I  come — from  my  quiet  home 
On  the  grassy  plain,  where  the  wild-bees 
roam  ; 

I  climb  the  mountain ; 

I  kiss  the  fountain ; 

I  cool  the  bower ; 

I  fan  the  flower  ; 

And  over  the  plain,  and  over  the  deep, 
My  silver  wings  in  silence  sweep ; 
And  on  the  breast  of  the  gentle  rill, 
And  on  the  top  of  the  cloud-capped  hill, 


(  238  ) 


1830-40.] 


THOMAS    GREGG. 


239 


I  take  my  slow  and  steady  flight, 
At  noontide  hour  or  dead  of  night ; 
And  stream  and  flood  and  forest  and  field 
Ever  to  my  mild  dominion  yield : 
But  whence  I  come,  or  where  I  go, 
'Tis  not  for  mortals  on  earth  to  know. 


SONG  OF  THE  WHIPPOWILL. 

THE  sun  hath  sunk  beneath  the  West, 

And  dark  the  shadows  fall; 
I'll  seek  again  my  forest  home, 

And  make  my  evening  call. 
The  zephyr  in  the  grove  is  hushed, 

And  every  leaf  is  still ; 
So  I  will  seek  my  wild  retreat, 

And  chant  my  Whippowill. 

Whippowill ! 

Dim  Night,  with  sable  mantle  spread, 

Envelops  field  and  flood, 
And  stars  with  pale  and  yellow  light, 

Shine  out  on  vale  and  wood. 
My  mate,  too,  has  begun  her  strain 

Upon  yon  distant  hill ; 
And  I  will  seek  my  leafy  bower, 

And  tune  my  Whippowill. 

Whippowill! 

The  watch-dog  has  retired  to  rest ; 

The  curfew  toll  is  done ; 
Nor  sound  is  heard  in  these  deep  shades, 

Save  my  shrill  voice  alone ; 
Or  in  yon  wild  and  lonely  glen, 

The  tinkling  of  a  rill ; 
So,  in  these  peaceful  solitudes, 

I'll  chant  my  Whippowill. 

Whippowill ! 


It  is  the  song  which  God  has  given — 

I'll  sing  it  to  his  praise ; 
Of  all  within  this  forest  bower, 

Mine  are  the  sweetest  lays — 
Then,  Whippowill !  shall  be  my  song, 

In  vale  or  on  the  hill ; 
Each  evening  at  the  twilight  hour, 

I'll  tune  iny  Whippowill. 

Whippowill! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  RIGHT. 

Go  forth !  go  forth  !     The  Battle  Cry 

Rings  out  from  every  glen ; 
From  every  vale  and  hill-side  home 

Pour  forth  stout-hearted  men  ! 
Nor  sword,  nor  buckler,  pike  nor  steel, 

They  gird  them  for  the  fight ; 
They  go — in  Heaven's  name  to  wage 

The  Battle  of  the  Right ! 

With  Truth  for  buckler  and  for  shield, 

In  confidence  they  go ; 
A  promise  unto  them  is  given 

To  stay  the  tide  of  woe. 
The  widow's  hearth  now  desolate, 

Their  mission  is  to  bless ; 
Her  orphans  now  that  starving  cry, 

Restore  to  happiness. 

Then  go — and  join  the  valiant  band, 

Ye  men  of  strength  and  nerve, 
Resolved  ne'er  from  the  path  of  right 

And  rectitude  to  swerve. 
Go  forth ! — when  God  and  duty  call, 

Join  in  the  eager  fight : 
Go  forth ! — in  Heaven's  name  to  wage 

The  Battle  of  the  Right ! 


CHARLES   D.  DRAKE. 


CHARLES  D.  DRAKE  was  born  at  Cincinnati,  on  the  eleventh  day  of  April,  1811. 
His  father,  Daniel  Drake,  a  pioneer  physician  and  a  pioneer  author  of  Ohio,  will  long 
be  remembered  in  the  West,  for  original  labors  well  calculated  to  make  known  the 
inviting  characteristics  of  the  Mississippi  Valley,  as  well  as  for  important  services  in 
the  furtherance  of  measures  by  which  the  weightiest  impediments  to  its  development 
have  been  removed.  He  was  the  first  student  of  medicine  in  Cincinnati ;  he  pub 
lished  the  first  books*  by  which  the  topography,  productions,  climate  and  resources 
of  the  Ohio  basin  were  adequately  advertised ;  and  he  was  active  for  material  enter 
prises,  as  well  as  for  literary  and  social  culture  and  professional  education,  from  the 
time  when  he  first  became  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati  (1800),  till  the  last  year  of  his 
life  (1852).  He  was  prominently  connected  with  the  earliest  Medical  Colleges  and 
earliest  medical  journals  of  the  West,  and,  in  1827,  projected  a  work  on  the  diseases 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley,!  to  which  he  devoted  the  best  thoughts  of  all  the  time  he 
could  spare  from  professional  obligations,  during  thirty  years. 

Charles  D.  was  a  midshipman  in  the  United  States  Navy  from  April,  1827,  to 
January,  1830.  Having  determined  to  qualify  himself  for  the  practice  of  law,  he 
entered  the  office  of  a  prominent  attorney,  in  Cincinnati,  immediately  after  he  resigned 
his  place  in  the  navy,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  Plamilton  county,  Ohio,  in  May, 
1833.  During  the  earlier  years  of  his  professional  life,  Mr.  Drake  contributed,  both 
prose  and  poetry,  to  the  journals  of  Cincinnati,  and  was  regarded  as  a  writer  who 
gave  promise  of  marked  success;  but  he  removed  to  St.  Louis  in  1844,  and,  rising 
rapidly  at  the  bar  of  that  city,  permitted  the  engrossing  cares  of  his  business  to 
frighten  the  "  gentle  nine  "  almost  beyond  recall.  He  has  rarely  engaged  in  metrical 
composition  since  1840.  In  1836  he  wrote  a  series  of  articles  on  the  "Legal 
lu  hit  ions  of  Husband  and  Wife,"  for  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  and  in  1854  pub 
lished  a  volume  "  On  the  Law  of  Suits  by  Attachment  in  the  United  States,"  which 
has  given  him  honored  rank  among  the  American  writers  on  legal  questions. 

Mr.  Drake  was,  in  18GO,  a  prominent  member  of  the  General  Assembly  of  Mis 
souri,  from  St.  Louis  county.  He  is  a  pleasing  and  forcible  speaker,  and  wields  wide 
political  as  well  as  personal  and  professional  influence. 

*  "  Notices  of  Cincinnati,"  1810.—"  Natural  and  Statistical  View  or  Picture  of  Cincinnati  and  the  Miami  Country," 
Illustrated  by  Maps.  Cincinnati :  Looker  and  Wallace,  1815.  12mo.  pp.  256. 

t  Principal  Diseases  of  the  Interior  Valley  of  North  America,  as  they  appear  in  the  Caucasian,  African,  Indian,  and 
Esquimaux  Varieties  of  its  Population.  2  vols.  8vo.  Cincinnati :  Winthrop  B.  Smith  &  Co.,  1850. 


(240) 


1830-40.] 


CHARLES    D.    DRAKE. 


241 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

AN  Eagle  flew  up  in  his  heavenward  flight, 
Far  out  of  the  reach  of  human  sight, 
And  gazed  on  the  earth  from  the  lordly 

height 

Of  his  sweeping  and  lone  career : 
"And  this  is  life!"  he  exultingly  screams, 
"  To  soar  without  fear  where  the  lightning 

gleams, 
And  look  unblenched  on  the  sun's  dazzling 

beams, 
As  they  blaze  through  the  upper  sphere." 

A  Lion  sprang  forth  from  his  bloody  bed, 
And  roared  till  it  seemed  he  would  wake 

the  dead, 
And  man  and  beast  from  him  wildly  fled, 

As  though  there  were  death  in  the  tone: 
"  And  this  is  life  !  "  he  triumphantly  cried, 
"  To  hold  my  domain  in  the  forest  wide, 
Imprisoned  by  naught  but  the  ocean's  tide, 

And  the  ice  of  the  frozen  zone." 

"  It  is  life,"  said  a  Whale,  "  to  swim  the 

deep; 

O'er  hills  submerged  and  abysses  to  sweep, 
Where  the  gods  of  ocean  their  vigils  keep, 

In  the  fathomless  gulfs  below  ; 
To  bask  on  the  bosom  of  tropical  seas, 
And    inhale   the    fragrance   of    Ceylon's 

breeze, 
Or  sport  where  the  turbulent  waters  freeze, 

In  the  climes  of  eternal  snow." 

"  It  is  life,"  says  a  tireless  Albatross, 

"  To  skim  through  the  air  when  the  dark 

waves  toss 

In   the   storm  that   has  swept   the  earth 
across, 

And  never  to  wish  for  rest ; 
To  sleep  on  the  breeze  as  it  softly  flies, 
My  perch  in  the  air,  iny  shelter  the  skies, 
And  build  my  nest  on  the  billows  that  rise 

And  break  with  a  pearly  crest." 


"  It  is  life,"  says  a  wild  Gazelle,  "  to  leap 
From   crag    to   crag  of   the   mountainous 

steep, 
Where  the  cloud's  icy  tears  in  purity  sleep, 

Like  the  marble  brow  of  death ; 
To  stand,  unmoved,  on  the  outermost  verge 
Of  the  perilous  height,  and  watch  the  surge 
Of  the  waters  beneath,  that  onward  urge, 

As  if  sent  by  a  demon's  breath." 

"  It  is  life,"  I  hear  a  Butterfly  say, 

"  To  revel  in  blooming  gardens  by  day, 

And  nestle  in  cups  of  flowerets  gay, 

When  the  stars  the  heavens  illume ; 
To  steal  from  the  rose  its  delicate  hue, 
And  sip  from  the  hyacinth  glittering  dew, 
And  catch  from  beds  of  the  violet  blue 

The  breath  of  its  gentle  perfume." 

u  It  is  life,"  a  majestic  War-horse  neighed, 
'  To  prance  in  the  glare  of  battle  and  blade, 
Where  thousands  in  terrible  death  are  laid, 

And  scent  of  the  streaming  gore  ; 
To  dash,  unappalled,  through  the  fiery  heat, 
And  trample  the  dead  beneath  my  feet, 
Mid  the  trumpet's  clang,  and  the  drum's 
loud  beat, 

And  the  hoarse  artillery's  roar." 

"  It  is  life,"  said  a  Savage,  with  hideous 

yell, 
"  To  roam  unshackled  the  mountain  and 

dell, 
And  feel  my  bosom  with  majesty  swell, 

As  the  primal  monarch  of  all ; 
To  gaze  on  the  earth,  the  sky  and  the  sea, 
And  feel  that,  like  them,  I  am  chainless 

and  free, 
And  never,  while  breathing,  to  bend  the 

knee, 
But  at  the  Manitou's  call." 

An  aged  Christian  went  tottering  by, 
And  white  was  his  hair,  and  dim  was  his 
eye, 


16 


•142 


CHARLES    D.    DRAKE. 


[1830-40. 


And  his  wasted  spirit  seemed  ready  to  fly, 

As  he  said,  with  faltering  breath : 
"  It  is  life  to  move  from  the  heart's  first 

throes, 
Through    youth   and   manhood    to   age's 

snows, 

In  a  ceaseless  circle  of  joys  and  woes, — 
It  is  life  to  prepare  for  death  !  " 


TO  MRS.  GEORGE  P.  MARSH.* 

THOU  goest   to  trust   thyself  to   mighty 

Ocean, 

While  home  behind  thee  lies ; 
And  strange,  grand  scenes,  inspiring  strange 

emotion, 
Will  soon  before  thee  rise. 

Eternity's  great  type,  with  ages  hoary, 

The  lone,  mysterious  Sea, 
Restless  as  Time  and  strong  as  Death,  in 
glory 

To  thee  revealed  shall  be. 

Swift  winds  o'er  the  drear  waste  of  waters 
flying 

May  startle  thee  from  sleep, 
Telling  sad  stories  of  the  dead  and  dying 

They've  given  to  the  deep. 

Through  weary  nights,  and   wished,  but 

cheerless  mornings, 
Thy  heart  may  yearn  for  Home, 
As   deep   to   deep   gives  forth  unearthly 

warnings 
Of  evil  yet  to  come : 

But  tremble  not !     In  that  dread  hour  of 

sorrow, 

Thy  swelling  fears  allay ! 
No  night  so  dark  but  God  can  bring  a  mor 
row, 
No  storm  but  He  can  stay : 


'  On  the  eve  of  her  departure  to  Constantinople,  1849. 


No  clouds  above   thee,  tempest-torn   and 

lowering, 

Can  hide  thee  from  His  eye  ; 
No    toppling  waves,  like  mountains  o'er 

thee  towering, 
Can  harm  when  He  is  nigh: 

He  who  to  troubled  Galilee  said  mildly 

"  Be  still ! "  and  was  obeyed, 
Can  quell  the  unpitying  storm  that  rages 
wildly 

Around  thy  drooping  head. 


LOVE'S  CONSTANCY. 

THE  flower,  that  oft  beneath  the  ray 

Of  sunlight  warm  has  bloomed, 
Will  fade  and  shrink  from  life  away, 

If  to  a  dungeon  doomed. 
But  even  there,  should  chance  disclose 

Some  beam  of  genial  light, 
Its  head  to  that  the  dying  rose 

Will  turn  from  gloom  and  night. 

The  chord  that,  gently  touched,  will  thrill 

With  music's  softest  strain, 
If  rudely  swept,  at  careless  will, 

Gives  forth  no  note  again : 
But  still  there  lingers  on  the  ear 

A  low,  faint,  murmuring  swell, 
As  if  the  tone  would  yet  be  near, 

Where  once  'twas  wont  to  dwell. 

So,  from  the  heart  that  once  has  known 

Love's  impulse  and  its  power, 
Though  light  may  be  forever  flown, 

As  from  the  imprisoned  flower, 
Forever  still  its  gaze  will  be 

Where  first  was  seen  its  star, 
As  shipwrecked  men  on  shoreless  sea 

Yearn  to  their  homes  afar : 
Still,  like  the  bud  that,  crushed,  will  yield 

Its  sweetest  fragrance  last, 
The  heart  that  once  to  love  has  kneeled 

Will  love  though  hope  be  past. 


LEWIS  F.  THOMAS. 


LEWIS  FOULKE  THOMAS  is  a  native  of  Baltimore  county,  Maryland.  He  was 
born  about  the  year  1815.  His  father,  E.  S.  Thomas,  having  moved  to  the  West  in 
1829,  Lewis  F.,  in  connection  with  his  brother,  Frederick  William,  assisted  in  the 
conduct  of  the  Commercial  Advertiser,  and  the  Evening  Post,  at  Cincinnati.  When 
the  Post  was  discontinued,  in  1835,  Lewis  F.  became  a  student  of  law.  He  was 
at  that  time  an  acceptable  contributor  to  the  Western  Monthly  and  to  the  Cincin 
nati  Mirror.  In  1839  he  published  and  edited  the  Louisville  (Ky.)  Daily  Herald. 
In  1841  he  removed  to  St.  Louis,  where  he  edited  and  published  a  quarto  pictorial 
work  called  "  Valley  of  the  Mississippi  Illustrated."  Parts  of  it  were  republished  in 
London,  and  were  translated  into  German,  and  issued  at  Dusseldorf. 

In  the  year  1842,  Mr.  Thomas  had  the  honor  of  publishing  at  St.  Louis  the  second* 
volume  of  poems  ever  printed  west  of  the  Mississippi  River — "Inda  and  other  Poems" 
— a  duodecimo,  containing  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  pages.  It  was  embellished 
with  a  portrait  of  the  author,  and  two  steel  engravings  illustrating  the  principal  poem. 
V.  Ellis  was  the  printer,  at  the  Bulletin  office.  About  one  thousand  copies  were 
printed,  but  soon  after  they  were  published  a  fire  occurred  in  the  building  where  they 
had  been  stored,  and  only  a  few  copies  were  snatched  from  the  flames.  It  is,  there 
fore,  now  a  very  rare  book.  "  Inda  "  was  delivered  before  the  Lyceum  at  Cincinnati, 
in  1834,  and  having  been  repeated  in  St.  Louis  in  1842,  was  published  at  the  request 
of  the  members  of  the  Lyceum  of  that  city.  In  the  preface  to  his  book,  the  author 
claiming  to  be  a  "  pioneer  of  poesy  on  this  (west)  side  of  the  Great  Valley,"  declares 
that  he  publishes  with  "  Inda "  some  juvenile  indiscretions,  against  the  advice  of 
friends,  merely  to  gratify  his  own  whim.  One  of  those  indiscretions,  "  The  World," 
was  originally  written  in  the  Album  of  John  Howard  Payne,  which  was  sold  in 
Washington  City,  in  1859,  at  a  very  high  price. 

Since  1842,  Mr.  Thomas  has  written  much  but  published  rarely.  The  only  series 
of  poems  given  the  world  from  his  pen,  are  "  Rhymes  of  the  Routes" — published  in 
Washington  during  the  Mexican  war.  They  celebrated  the  principal  victories  by  the 
American  army.  In  1838  he  wrote  a  drama  entitled  "Osceola,"  which  was  success 
fully  performed  at  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  and  New  Orleans.  He  was  therefore  en 
couraged  to  dramatic  studies,  and  has  given  elaborate  thought  to  a  tragedy  entitled 
"  Cortez,  the  Conqueror,"  which  he  proposes  to  put  upon  the  stage  sometime  within  the 
present  year.  Mr.  Thomas  is  now  an  attorney  at  law  in  Washington  City. 

*  The  first  was  printed  in  1821.    Its  title  was  "  Missourian  Lays  and  other  Western  Ditties,  by  Angus  Humphra- 
ville."    ISino,  pp.  72.    It  was  printed  at  The  Enquirer  office. 


(243) 


244 


LEWIS    F.    THOMAS. 


[1830-40. 


WOMAN. 

0  WOMAN!  unto   thee  1117  thoughts   aye 

tend- 
To  thee — the  fairest  feature  of  creation ; 
Ever  the  falsest  foe,  and  firmest  friend — 
Our  greatest  grief—our  sweetest  conso 
lation  ; 

Tyrant  and  slave  together  in  thee  blend, 
And  still  thou  art  our  proudest  exultation ; 

1  loathe,  yet  love  thee,  from  my  inmost 

soul, 
And  spurning  thee,  I  bow  to  thy  control. 

Thou  epitome  of  antithesis ! 

Thou  Pandora !  fair  messenger  of  woe ! 
Full  fraught    with  evils    yet  bespeaking 

bliss, 
Thy  heart's  the   casket   whence  those 

evils  flow, 

Thy  lips  the  lid ; — let  feelings  urge  amiss, 

Or  rouse  thy  passion  to  a  fervent  glow, 

'Tis   opened,   and   unnumber'd    mischiefs 

flee- 
But  Hope,  the  Siren,  stays  and  lures  to 
thee. 

Dear  woman !  as  a  mother  most  belov'd, 

From  life's  beginning  to  its  closing  scene, 
With  a  deep  love,  unshrinking  and  un 
moved 

Through  all  the  good  or  ills  that  inter 
vene; 

As  sister — friend — thy  truth  is  ever  prov'd 
And  naught  can  come  thy  faith  and  love 

between ; 
Thou  art  the   Halcyon  of  our   youthful 

years, 

Blending  thy  vision  with  our  hopes  and 
fears. 

O !  I  do  know  how  soothing  'tis  to  feel 
A  mother's  hand  pass'd  o'er  my  aching 

head  ; 

To  see  a  sister  bend  o'er  me,  or  kneel, 
A  "min'st'ring  angel"  by  my  restless 
bed, 


With  anxious  look  inquiring  of  my  weal ; 

The  very  flutter  of  her  gown — her 
tread — 

ame  like  sweet  music  calming  me  to  rest, 
And  I  have  .wept  to  think  I  was  so  blest. 

Though  man  hath  basely  squander'd  a  fair 

fame, 

Though  oft  he  causes  bitter  tears  to  start, 
The  mother  still,  through  crime,  reproach 

and  shame, 
Will  keep  him  garner'd  in  her  heart  of 

heart — 

The  sister's  love  still  cherishes  his  name, 
Though    he  hath  riv'd  affection's    ties 

apart ; 

And  0  !  through  each  vicissitude  of  life, 
How    fondly  to  the   husband  clings    the 
wife. 

0  woman !  ingrate  man  in  vain  may  try 
To  pay  the  myriad  debts  that  are  thy 

due; 

E'en     though    he    drain    his  heart's    ex 
chequer  dry, 

And  make  his  very  soul  a  bankrupt  too, 
Thy  drafts  upon  his  love  unhonored  lie ; 
His  utmost  reach  of  years  are  all  too 

few 
To  cancel  half  the  gifts   that  thou  hast 

given — 
His  ev'ry  joy  on  earth — his  hope  in  Heaven. 


THE  WORLD. 

THE  world !  the  world !  what  is  the  world? 

Of  which  so  much  we  prate, 
Wherein  we  are  as  atoms  hurl'd, 

Whose  fiat  is  our  fate. 

We  enter  on  its  busy  maze 

With  youthful  feelings  rife, 
We  shun  its  scorn,  we  pray  its  praise, — 

To  us  the  breath  of  life. 


1830-40.] 


LEWIS    F.   THOMAS. 


245 


We  labor  with  unceasing  toil 

To  win  its  fleeting  smile, 
And  through  its  myriad  windings  coil, 

For  either  good  or  guile. 

And  hope  though  oft  deferr'd  still  beams, 

To  lure  us  with  its  ray, 
And  still  we  welcome  joy's  new  dreams, 

As  old  ones  pass  away. 

Ambition  gems  a  diadem, 

And  wreathes  a  wreath  of  fame, 

And  bids  us  fortune's  current  stem, 
To  battle  for  a  name. 

We  seize  the  sword,  to  war  rush  on, 
We  fall — our  wounds  our  glory — 

And  thus  in  honor's  guerdon  won, 
And  thus  we  end  our  story. 

Or  else  perchance  to  learning's  page 
The  thought  of  fame  awakes  us, 

We  study  on  from  youth  to  age, 
Or  till  disease  o'ertakes  us. 

Meanwhile  the  rabble  bears  along 

Some  demagogue  before  us, 
Who  courted  well  the  vulgar  throng, 

And  thus  doth  triumph  o'er  us. 

Philosophy  we  ponder  o'er 

In  eager  search  for  truth, 
And  waste  upon  its  pond'rous  lore 

The  precious  years  of  youth. 

And  when  with  age  and  grief  grown  gray 

What  problem  is  found  out  ? 
Alas !  we  sadly  turn  away, 

To  droop  and  die  in  doubt 

O'er  holy  writ  we  bend  the  mind 

Till  reason  quits  her  throne, 
And  then  we  can  but  weep  to  find 

The  soul  a  skeptic  grown. 

Friendship  in  fortune's  sunny  day, 
Is  beautiful  and  bright, 


But  woe  and  care  obscure  her  ray, 
And  vail  her  beams  in  night ; — 

And    love — our  young   heart's    plighted 
gage— 

Our  youth's  most  thrilling  theme — 
Alas  !  we  find  in  wint'ry  age, 

'Twas  only  summer's  dream. 

We  are — and  yet  we  know  not  why 

Our  fate  has  sent  us  hither, 
To  live  our  little  hour  and  die, 

And  go— we  know  not  whither. 

O  man  is  but  a  fragile  bark, 

Toss'd  on  a  tempest  sea; 
Above  him  storm-clouds  gather  dark, 

And  breakers  on  his  lee. 

Hope's  a  false  beacon  on  the  wave, 

That  lures  him  to  despair ; 
Truth's  only  home  is  in  the  grave — 

The  wise  will  seek  her  there. 


MEMORY. 

A  HARP  whose  every  chord's  unstrung, 

A  doubted  treason  proved ; 
A  melody  that  once  was  sung, 

By  lips  that  once  we  loved ; 
A  bark  without  a  helm  or  sail, 

Lost  on  a  stormy  sea; 
A  dove  that  doth  its  mate  bewail — 

Like  these  is  memory. 

And  oh,  it  is  the  spirit's  well, 

Its  only  fount  of  truth, 
Whose  every  drop  some  tale  can  tell, 

Of  bright  and  buoyant  youth ; 
And  as  we  traverse  weary  years, 

Of  sorrow  and  of  crime, 
We  feed  that  fount  with  bitter  tears, 

Wept  for  the  olden  time. 


246 


LEWIS    F.    THOMAS. 


[1830-40. 


The  sun  doth  dry  the  springs  of  earth 

With  rays  from  summer  skies, 
But  feeling's  fountain  knows  no  dearth, 

Its  current  never  dries. 
The  rills  into  the  rivers  run, 

The  rivers  to  the  sea, 
Months  into  years  and  years  into 

Life's  ocean — Memory. 

At  noon  our  little  bark  sets  sail, 

Hope  proudly  mans  its  deck, 
At  eve  it  drives  before  the  gale 

A  wreck — a  very  wreck — 
Our  early  youth's  untainted  soul, 

Our  first  love's  first  regret ; 
These  storm-like  over  Memory  roll — 

Oh,  who  would  not  forget! 


LOVE'S  ARGUMENT. 

0!  LIFE  is  short,  and  love  is  brief, 
Life  ends  in  woe  and  love  in  grief; 

Yet  both  for  bliss  are  given, 
And  wise  philosophy  will  teach 
Who  one  enjoys,  enjoyeth  each, 

And  comes  most  near  to  heaven. 

Now  you  and  I,  dear  girl,  well  know 
All  bliss  is  fleeting  here  below, 

As  moralists  do  prove ; 
Then  let  us  haste,  while  youth  is  rife, 
To  snatch  the  fondest  joy  in  life, 

And  only  live  to  love. 

0  love  it  is  the  tender  rose, 
That  for  a  little  season  blows, 


And  withers,  fades  and  dies  ; 
Then  seize  it  in  its  budding  grace, 
And  in  thy  bosom  give  it  place, 

Ere  its  sweet  perfume  flies. 

Love  is  the  bubble  that  doth  swim 
Upon  the  wine-cup's  flowing  brim, 

A  moment  sparkling  there  ; 
Then  haste  tliee,  dear,  its  sweets  to  sip, 
And  let  them  melt  upon  thy  lip, 

Or  they  will  waste  in  air. 

0  love  !  it  is  the  dew-drop  bright 
That  steals  upon  the  flower  at  night, 

And  lingers  there  till  morn  ; 
The  flower  doth  droop,  when  with  the  day 
The  sun  dissolves  the  drop  away : 

So  love  is  killed  by  scorn. 

And  thus  do  transient  tear-drops  shine, 
Bright'ning  those  soul-lit  eyes  of  thine, 

That  beam  with  soften'd  ray  ; 
No  gleam  of  scorn  from  others'  eye 
Shall  make  those  glitt'ring  tear-drops  dry — 

I'll  kiss  them,  dear,  away. 

0  love  is  like  the  ling'ring  spark, 
'Midst  fading  embers  in  the  dark — 

'Tis  brightest  as  it  dies ; 
But  'tis  a  Phrenix  with  swift  wings, 
And  forth  from  its  own  ashes  springs, 

And  soars  for  genial  skies. 

Then  taste  love's  joys  while  yet  you  may, 
For  they  with  wint'ry  age  decay, 

And  coldness  will  them  smother ; 
And  if  young  love  should  ever  find 
One  maiden's  heart  to  prove  unkind — 

He  soon  will  seek  another. 


EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN. 


IN  October,  1841,  Edward  Lucas  of  Cincinnati  published  a  duodecimo  volume  of 
312  pages,  which  was  entitled  "The  Lovers  of  the  Deep,"  in  four  cantos,  to  which  is 
added  a  variety  of  Miscellaneous  Poems,  by  Edward  A.  McLaughlin.  In  his  Preface 
Mr.  McLaughlin  said: 

I  am  a  native  of  the  State  of  Connecticut,*  and  from  my  youth  have  been  rather  of  a  lively  and 
roving  disposition.  At  an  early  age  I  absconded  from  home,  with  an  intention  of  joining  the  army  ; 
but  was  reclaimed,  and  shortly  afterward  bound  an  apprentice  to  the  printing  business.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  I  indulged  my  military  enthusiasm,  and  joined  the  Missouri  expedition.  At  the 
reduction  of  the  army  in  1821,  I  received  my  discharge  at  Belle  Fontaine,  and,  descending  the  Mis 
sissippi,  commenced  a  new  career  on  the  ocean.  I  liked  this  element  better  than  the  land  ;  and  the 
desire  of  seeing  foreign  countries,  induced  me  to  follow,  for  some  years,  the  life  of  a  sailor.  Being 
discharged  at  one  time  from  the  La  Plata  frigate,  in  Carthagena,  Colombia,  I  was  forcibly  impressed 
into  the  Patriot  service.  After  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  I  was  enabled,  through  the  gen 
erous  assistance  of  George  Watts,  British  Consul  for  that  Republic,  to  return  home.  I  subse 
quently  entered  the  American  Navy,  in  which  I  served  about  three  years  and  a  half.  My  last  voy 
age  was  in  the  Hudson  frigate,  on  the  Brazil  station,  from  which  ship  I  was  sent  home  an  invalid, 
to  Washington,  where  I  was  finally  discharged  from  the  service  in  1829. 

I  have  written  under  many  and  great  disadvantages.  With  a  mind  not  characterized  by  any 
great  natural  force  ;  stored  with  but  little  reading,  and  that  mostly  of  a  local  and  superficial  char 
acter  ;  without  books  of  any  kind — not  even  a  dictionary — I  was  thrown  altogether  upon  my  own 
slender  resources.  The  leading  poem  was  begun  and  concluded  under  circumstances  never  above 
want :  though  a  regard  to  truth  constrains  me  to  acknowledge,  that  these  circumstances  were  not 
unfrequently  the  consequence  of  a  want  of  moral  firmness  and  stability,  on  my  own  part — to  say 
the  least  of  it — induced  by  the  sudden  and  unlooked-for  overthrow  of  cherished  hopes  and  desires. 

The  "  Lovers  of  the  Deep  "  was  dedicated  to  Nicholas  Longworth,  and  the  miscel 
laneous  poems,  which  the  author  said  were  nearly  all  written  in  Cincinnati,  were  in 
scribed  to  Richard  F.  L'Hommedieu,  Peyton  S.  Symmes,  Bellamy  Storer,  Jacob  Burnet, 
and  other  well-known  citizens.  As  described  by  the  author : 

The  principal  poem  was  founded  upon  an  incident,  supposed  to  have  occurred  in  connection  with 
the  destruction  of  the  steamer  Pulaski,  by  the  bursting  of  her  boiler,  while  on  her  passage  from 
Savannah  to  Charleston.  Among  those  who  happily  escaped  immediate  death  or  injury  by  the  ex 
plosion,  were  a  young  gentleman  and  lady,  who  were  thrown  near  each  other.  The  gentleman  suc 
ceeded  in  placing  his  fair  partner  upon  a  floating  fragment  of  the  wreck,  on  which  they  were  tossed 
at  the  mercy  of  the  waves  for  three  days  ;  suffering  intensely  from  thirst,  and  exposure  to  the 
tropic  sun,  and  momentarily  in  danger  of  being  overwhelmed  by  the  billows,  and  swallowed  up  in 
the  abyss.  Their  mutual  distress  doubtless  excited  mutual  tenderness  of  feeling,  for  misery  sym 
pathizes  with  misery :  they  became  tenderly  attached  to  each  other ;  and  when  scarce  a  hope  of 
safety  was  left  them — when  nature  was  nearly  exhausted,  and  they  were  fast  sinking  under  their 
sufferings,  with  no  other  prospect  but  that  of  perishing  together  :— in  that  incomprehensible  union 
of  love  and  despair,  of  which  human  life  is  not  wanting  in  examples  ;  they  pledged  their  faith  to 
each  other,  to  wed,  should  Heaven  in  mercy  grant  them  deliverance.  They  were  subsequently  res 
cued  from  their  perilous  situation,  and,  happily,  redeemed  at  the  altar  the  pledges  given  in  the  hour 
of  adversity  and  trial. 

*He  was  born  at  North  Stamford,  on  the  ninth  of  January,  1798. 
(  247  ) 


248 


EDWARD    A.   M'LAUGHLIN. 


[1830-40. 


The  story  is  not  vigorously  told.  The  best  passages  in  the  poem  are  descriptive 
of  scenes  and  scenery  foreign  to  the  tale.  Several  of  his  miscellaneous  poems  are 
graceful,  and  show  that,  though  the  author  was  "  no  debtor  to  fair  Learning's  schools," 
he  was  endowed  by  nature  with  respectable  poetic  talent.  The  lines  "  To  Cincin 
nati  "  open  Part  III.  of  the  "  Lovers  of  the  Deep." 


TO  CINCINNATI* 

CITY  of  gardens,  verdant  parks,  sweet 
bowers ; 

Blooming  upon  thy  bosom,  bright  and 
fair, 

Wet  with  the  dews  of  spring,  and  sum 
mer's  showers, 

And  fanned  by  every  breath  of  wander 
ing  air ; 

Rustling  the  foliage  of  thy  green  groves, 
where 

The  blue-bird's  matin  wakes  the  smiling 
morn, 

And   sparkling  humming-birds  of  plu 
mage  rare, 

With   tuneful   pinions  on   the   zephyrs 

borne, 

Disport  the  flowers  among,  and  glitter  and 
adorn : 

Fair  is  thy  seat,  in  soft  recumbent  rest 
Beneath  the  grove-clad  hills;   whence 

morning  wings 

The  gentle  breezes  of  the  fragrant  west, 
That   kiss   the   surface   of  a  thousand 

springs  : 

Nature,  her  many-colored  mantle  flings 
Around  thee,  and  adorns  thee  as  a  bride ; 
While  polished  Art  his  gorgeous  tribute 

brings, 
And  dome  and  spire  ascending  far  and 

wide, 
Their  pointed  shadows  dip  in  thy  Ohio's 

tide. 


"Inscribed  to  Richard  F.  L'Hommedieu. 


So  fair  in  infancy, — 0  what  shall  be 
Thy  blooming  prime,  expanding  like  the 

rose 

In  fragrant  beauty  ;  when  a  century 
Hath  passed  upon  thy  birth,  and  time 

bestows 
The   largess   of    a   world,   that   freely 

throws 

Her  various  tribute  from  remotest  shores, 
To   enrich   the  Western    Rome :    Here 

shall  repose 
Science  and  art ;  and  from  time's  subtile 

ores — 
Nature's  unfolded  page — knowledge  enrich 

her  stores. 

Talent  and  Genius  to  thy  feet  shall  bring 
Their    brilliant   offerings   of    immortal 

birth  : 

Display  the  secrets  of  Pieria's  spring, 
Castalia's  fount  of  melody  and  mirth : 
Beauty,  and  grace,  and  chivalry,  and 

worth, 
Wait  on  the  Queen  of  Arts,  in  her  own 

bowers, 
Perfumed  with  all  the  fragrance  of  the 

earth, 
From  blooming  shrubbery,  and  radiant 

flowers  ; 
And  hope  with  rapture  wed  life's  calm  and 

peaceful  hours. 

Oft  as  the  spring  wakes  on  the  verdant 

year. 
And    nature   glows   in    fervid    beauty 

dress'd, 


1830-40.] 


EDWARD    A.   M' LAUGH  LIN. 


249 


The  loves  and  graces  shall  commingle 

here, 

To  charm  the  queenly  City  of  the  West ; 
Her  stately  youth,  with  noble  warmth 

impress'd, 
Her  graceful  daughters,  smiling  as  the 

May — 

Apollos  these,  and  Hebes  those  confess'd ; 
Bloom  in  her  warm  and  fertilizing  ray, 
While  round  their  happy  sires,  the  cherub 

infants  play. 

So  sings  the  Muse,  as  she  with  fancy's 

eye, 

Scans,  from  imagination's  lofty  height, 
Thy    radiant   beaming   day — where   it 

doth  lie 
In   the   deep   future;    glowing   on   the 

night 
From   whose   dark  womb,  empires  un- 

vail  to  light : 
Mantled,  and  diademed,  and  sceptered 

there, 
Thou    waitest   but   the   advent   of  thy 

flight, 
When,  like  a  royal   Queen,  stately  and 

fair, 
The   City  of  the  West  ascends  the  regal 

chair. 


HARVEST  SONG. 

THE  smiling  Morn,  in  splendor  clad, 

Arrays  the  orient  sky 
In  rosy  light,  to  cheer  the  sad, 

And  Nature  beautify : 
She  calls  the  yeoman  from  his  couch, 

To  tread  the  burthened  sod, 
Where  Ceres  waves  her  flaming  torch, 

And  yellow  harvests  nod. 

And  now  we  move  a  jovial  band, 
Where  health  and  strength  disclose, 


To  reap  from  Nature's  open  hand 

The  blessings  she  bestows  : 
Far  as  the  horizon  extends, 

Where'er  we  turn  to  view, 
The  varied  landscape  lowly  bends, 

And  crowned  with  plenty  too. 

The  vigorous  youths  the  toil  begin, 

The  sires  bring  up  the  rear ; 
Who  gets  first  through  a  boon  shall  win 

From  her  he  holds  most  dear. 
With  many  a  jest  and  many  a  song, 

The  platoons  start  away — 
Saturn  ne'er  led  a  braver  throng 

Than  treads  the  field  to-day. 

'Tis  noon  :  we  seek  the  welcome  glade, 

To  take  our  midday  rest ; 
Stretched  on  the    sward,   beneath   the 
shade, 

Till  nature  is  refreshed  : 
A  rich  repast  full  soon  is  spread, 

Our  table  is  the  ground, 
And  now  and  then,  to  damp  the  bread, 

We  pass  the  glass  around. 

The  hour  is  up — we  haste  away 

To  range  the  field  once  more, 
And  cheer  the  after-part  of  day 

As  in  the  morn  before: 
Some  rake  the  gravel  clean  and  clear, 

Our  work  is  done  in  brief; 
While  others  follow  in  the  rear, 

To  bind  the  yellow  sheaf. 

Bright  Pho3bus  sinks  in  western  skies, 

The  festal  is  begun  ; 
We  little  care  how  swift  time  flies, 

When  our  day's  work  is  done. 
The  sportive  horn  sounds  through  the 
vale, 

The  supper  hour  is  come ; 
With  quickened  step  we  cross  the  dale, 

And  gaily  travel  home. 


LAURA  M.  THURSTON. 


LAURA  M.  THURSTON,  whose  maiden  name  was  Hawley,  was  born  in  December, 
1812,  in  Norfolk,  Connecticut.  She  prepared  herself  for  the  profession  of  teaching 
by  completing  her  education  at  the  Hartford  Female  Seminary.  She  taught  school, 
first  in  Hartford,  afterward  in  New  Bedford,  in  the  same  State,  and  then  in  Phila 
delphia.  While  teaching  in  the  latter  place  she  was  induced  to  remove  West,  and 
take  charge  of  an  Academy  for  young  women  in  New  Albany,  Indiana. 

In  September,  1839,  she  was  married  to  Franklin  Thurston,  a  merchant  of  New 
Albany.  She  laid  aside  her  profession,  but  continued  to  reside  in  the  same  place 
until  her  death,  which  occurred  July  twenty-first,  1842. 

Mrs.  Thurston  wrote  under  the  signature  of  VIOLA,  publishing  her  poems  in  the 
Louisville  Journal,  and  in  Gallagher's  Hesperian.  Although  cut  off  in  the  maturity 
of  her  powers,  the  poems,  few  in  number,  which  she  gave  to  the  press,  furnish 
evidence  of  a  highly  gifted  poetic  mind.  Like  most  of  our  early  poets,  she  wrote 
from  the  impulse  of  her  feelings,  not  having  fame  or  remuneration  in  view,  and  her 
poems  are  appeals  to  the  heart.  Yet  there  is  more  than  ordinary  vigor  in  her  lines, 
and  generally  a  very  melodious  versification.  She  had  thoroughly  imbibed  the  spirit 
of  her  new  home,  and  her  poems  are  more  thoroughly  Western  than  any  other  of  our 
female  poets  of  her  time.  Her  poems  have  never  been  collected  in  a  volume,  although 
immediately  after  her  death  there  were  promises  made  of  such  a  collection. 


ON  CROSSING  THE  ALLEGHANIES. 

THE  broad,  the  bright,  the  glorious  West, 

Is  spread  before  me  now  ! 
Where  the  gray  mists  of  morning  rest 

Beneath  yon  mountain's  brow  ! 
The  bound  is  past — the  goal  is  won — 
The  region  of  the  setting  sun 

Is  open  to  my  view. 
Land  of  the  valiant  and  the  free — 
My  own  Green  Mountain  land — to  thee, 

And  thine,  a  long  adieu  ! 

I  hail  thee,  Valley  of  the  West, 
For  what  thou  yet  shall  be ! 

I  hail  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rest 
Upon  thy  destiny ! 


Here — from  this  mountain  height,  I  see 
Thy  bright  waves  floating  to  the  sea, 

Thine  emerald  fields  outspread, 
And  feel  that  in  the  book  of  fame, 
Proudly  shall  thy  recorded  name 

In  later  days  be  read. 

Yet  while  I  gaze  upon  thee  now, 

All  glorious  as  thou  art, 
A  cloud  is  resting  on  my  brow, 

A  weight  upon  my  heart. 
To  me — in  all  thy  youthful  pride — 
Thou  art  a  land  of  cares  untried, 

Of  untold  hopes  and  fears. 
Thou  art — yet  not  for  thee  I  grieve ; 
But  for  the  far-off  land  I  leave, 

I  look  on  thee  with  tears. 


(  250  ) 


1830-40.] 


LAURA    M.    THURSTON. 


251 


0  !  brightly,  brightly  glow  thy  skies, 

In  summer's  sunny  hours ! 
The  green  earth  seems  a  paradise 

Arrayed  in  summer  flowers  ! 
But  oh  !  there  is  a  land  afar 
Whose  skies  to  me  are  brighter  far, 

Along  the  Atlantic  shore  ! 
For  eyes  beneath  their  radiant  shrine, 
In  kindlier  glances  answered  mine — 

Can  these  their  light  restore  ? 

Upon  the  lofty  bound  I  stand, 

That  parts  the  East  and  West ; 
Before  me — lies  a  fairy  land ; 

Behind — a  home  of  rest ! 
Here,  hope  her  wild  enchantment  flings, 
Portrays  all  bright  and  lovely  things, 

My  footsteps  to  allure — 
But  there,  in  memory's  light,  I  see 
All  that  was  once  most  dear  to  me — 

My  young  heart's  cynosure ! 


THE  PATHS  OF  LIFE.* 

Go  forth — the  world  is  very  wide, 
And  many  paths  before  ye  lie, 

Devious,  and  dangerous, and  untried; 
Go  forth  with  wary  eye ! 

Go  !  with  the  heart  by  grief  unbow'd  ! 

Go !  ere  a  shadow  or  a  cloud 
Hath  dimm'd  the  laughing  sky ! 

But,  lest  your  wand'ring  footsteps  stray, 

Choose  ye  the  straight,  the  narrow  way. 

Go  forth — the  world  is  very  fair, 

Through  the  dim  distance  as  ye  gaze, 

And  mark,  in  long  perspective,  there, 
The  scenes  of  coming  days. 

Orbs  of  bright  radiance  gem  the  sky, 

And  fields  of  glorious  beauty  lie 


*  An  address  to  a  class  of  girls,  about  leaving  school, 
Indiana. 


Beneath  their  orient  rays  ; 
fet,  ere  their  altered  light  grow  dim, 
Seek  ye  the  Star  of  Bethlehem! 

3k>  forth — within  your  distant  homes 

There  are  fond  hearts  that  mourn  your 

stay ; 
There  are  sweet  voices  bid  ye  come ; 

Go — ye  must  hence — awray  ! 
Sib  more  within  the  woodland  bowers 
Tour  hands  may  wreathe  the  summer  flow 
ers, 

No  more  your  footsteps  stray ; 
To  hail  the  hearth,  and  grove  and  glen, 

,  when  will  ye  return  again  ? 

Sot  when  the  summer  leaves  shall  fade, 

As  now  they  fade  from  shrub  and  tree, 
When  autumn  winds,  through  grove  and 

glade, 

Make  mournful  melody ; 
The  long,  bright,  silent  autumn  days, 
The  sunset,  with  its  glorious  blaze, 

These  shall  return — but  ye 

Though  time  may  all  beside  restore, 
Ye  may  come  back  to  us  no  more. 

Go — ye  have  dreamed  a  fairy  dream, 
Of  cloudless  skies  and  fadeless  flowers, 

Of  days,  whose  sunny  lapse  shall  seem 
A  fete  'mid  festal  bowers ! 

But  of  the  change,  the  fear,  the  strife, 

The  gathering  clouds,  the  storms  of  life, 
The  blight  of  autumn  showers, 

Ye  have  no  vision — these  must  be 

Unvailed  by  stern  reality  ! 

Ye  yet  must  wake  (for  time  and  care 
Have  ever  wandered  side  by  side), 
To  find  earth  false,  as  well  as  fair, 

And  weary  too,  as  wide. 
Ye  yet  must  wake,  to  find  the  glow 
Hath  faded  from  the  things  below, 

The  glory  and  the  pride ! 
To  bind  the  willow  on  the  brow, 
Wreathed  with  the  laurel  garland  now. 


252 


LAURA    M.    THURSTON. 


[1830-40. 


But  wherefore  shall  I  break  the  spell 
That  makes  the  future  seem  so  bright  ? 

Why  to  the  young,  glad  spirit  tell 
Of  withering  and  blight? 

'T  Avere  better:  when  the  meteor  dies, 

A  steadier,  holier  light  shall  rise, 
Cheering  the  gloomy  night : 

A  light,  when  others  fade  away, 

Still  shining  on  to  perfect  day. 

Go  then — and  when  no  more  are  seen 
The  faces  that  ye  now  behold — 

When  years,  long  years  shall  intervene, 
Sadly  and  darkly  told — 

When  time,  with  stealthy  hand,  shall  trace 

His  mystic  lines  on  every  face, 
Oh,  may  his  touch  unfold 

The  promise  of  that  better  part, 

The  unfading  spring-time  of  the  heart ! 


THE  GREEN  HILLS  OF  MY  FATHER-LAND, 

THE  green  hills  of  my  father-land 

In  dreams  still  greet  my  view ; 
I  see  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand — 

The  ocean-depth  of  blue — 
The  sky — the  glorious  sky,  outspread 

Above  their  calm  repose — 
The  river,  o'er  its  rocky  bed 

Still  singing  as  it  flows — 
The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pray — 
The  sunlight  resting  on  the  flowers — 
The  birds  that  sing  among  the  bowers, 

Through  all  the  summer  day. 

Land  of  my  birth  ! — mine  early  love ! 

Once  more  thine  airs  I  breathe ! 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  above — 

Thy  green  vales  sleep  beneath — 
Thy  groves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring 
rills, 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes, 


The  dawn  of  morning  on  thy  hills, 
Thy  gorgeous  sunset  skies, — 

Thy  forests,  from  whose  deep  recess 
A  thousand  streams  have  birth, 

Glad'ning  the  lonely  wilderness, 

And  filling  the  green  silentness 
With  melody  and  mirth. 

I  wonder  if  my  home  would  seem 

As  lovely  as  of  yore ! 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain  stream 

Goes  singing  by  the  door ! 
And  if  the  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 

And  if  the  woodbines  climb, 
As  when  I  used  to  train  them  there, 

In  the  dear  olden  time ! 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  still  sing 

Upon  the  garden  tree, 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  Spring 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me ! 

I  know  that  there  hath  been  a  change, 

A  change  o'er  hall  and  hearth ! 
Faces  and  footsteps  new  and  strange, 

About  my  place  of  birth ! 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  bright 

As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
But  vanished  is  the  beacon  light 

That  cheered  my  morning  sky ! 
And  hill,  and  vale,  and  wooded  glen, 

And  rock,  and  murmuring  stream, 
That  wore  such  glorious  beauty  then, 
Would  seem,  should  I  return  again, 

The  record  of  a  dream ! 


I  mourn  not  for  my  childhood's  hours, 

Since,  in  the  far-off  West, 
'Neath  sunnier  skies,  in  greener  bowers, 

My  heart  hath  found  its  rest. 
I  mourn  not  for  the  hills  and  streams 

That  chained  my  steps  so  long, 
Yet  still  I  see  them  in  my  dreams, 

And  hail  them  in  my  song ; 


1830-40.]                                        LAURA    M.    THURSTON.                                                253 

And  often  by  the  hearth-fire's  blaze, 

And  coldly,  aye  coldly  !  I  gaze  on  thee  now, 

When  winter  eves  shall  come, 

Or  turn  from  thy  presence  away; 

We'll  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 

I  heed  not  the  beauty  that  dwells  on  thy 

And  sing  the  well-remembered  lays 

brow  — 

Of  my  Green  Mountain  Home. 

A  beauty  to  win  and  betray. 

Like  a  sepulcher,  garnished,  and  fair    to 

the  sight, 

Though  filled  with  corruption  and  death  — 

The  cheek  may  be  fair,  and  the  eye  may  be 

I  FEAR  NOT  THY  FROWN. 

bright, 

I  FEAR  not  thy  frown,  and  I  ask  not  thy 

While  a  false  heart  is  beating  beneath. 

smile  ; 

Thy  love  has  no  value  for  me  ! 

m 

The  spell  of    thine    eye   can   no    longer 

beguile  — 

My  heart  from  enchantment  is  free  ! 

PARTING  HYMN.* 

Thou  may'st  whisper  the  language  of  love 

as  before, 

BRETHREN,  we  are  parting  now, 

Thou  may'st  speak  of  the  past,  if  thou 

Here  perchance  to  meet  no  more  ! 

wilt  ; 

Well  may  sorrow  cloud  each  brow, 

It  can  only  the  record  of  falsehood  restore, 

That  another  dream  is  o'er. 

Or  awake  the  remembrance  of  guilt. 

Life  is  fraught  with  changeful  dreams, 

Ne'er  to-morrow  as  to-day; 

Time  was,  when  I  dreamed  'twould   be 

Scarce  we  catch  their  transient  gleams, 

death  to  my  heart, 

Ere  they  melt  and  fade  away. 

To  live  disunited  to  thee  ; 

That  life,  from  thy  love  and  thy  presence 

But,  upon  the  brow  of  night, 

apart, 

See  the  Morning  Star  arise  ; 

Must  a  desolate  wilderness  be  ! 

With  unchanging,  holy  light 

I  loved  —  with  a  love  how  devoted  and  deep, 

Gilding  all  the  eastern  skies. 

'Twere  vanity  now  to  recall  ! 

Bethlehem's  Star  !  of  yore  it  blazed, 

I  loved,  0,  too  truly  !  for  now  I  could  weep, 

Gleaming  on  Judea's  brow, 

That  I  e'er  should  have  loved  thee  at  all  ! 

While  the  wondering  Magi  gazed  ; 

We  meet  in  the  throng,  and  we  join  in  the 

Brethren,  let  it  guide  us  now  : 

dance, 

And  thy  voice  is  as  soft,  and  as  low  ; 

Guide  us  over  land  and  sea, 

J 

And  thine  eye  hath  as  deep,  and  as  earn- 

Where  the  tribes  in  darkness  mourn, 

*/                                              X  " 

est  glance, 

Where  no  Gospel  jubilee 

As  it  had  when  we  met  long  ago. 
But  I  think  of  the  past,  as  a  vision  that's 

Bids  the  ransomed  ones  return  ; 
Or,  beneath  our  own  blue  skies, 

flown  ; 

Where  our  green  savannas  spread, 

Of  thy  love,  as  a  dream  of  the  night  : 
The  magic  is  gone  from  thy  look  and  thy 

Let  us  bid  that  Star  arise, 
And  its  beams  of  healing  shed. 

tone  — 

*  Written  for  the  Anniversary  Exercises  at  the  New 

Thy  falsehood  hath  put  it  to  flight. 

Albany  Theological  Seminary. 

254 


LAURA    M.    T  HURST  ON. 


[1830-40. 


Shall  we  shrink  from  pain  and  strife 

While  our  Captain  leads  the  way ! 
Shall  we,  for  the  love  of  life, 

Cast  a  Saviour's  love  away  ? 
Rather  gird  his  armor  on, 

Fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord, 
Till  the  victory  be  won, 

And  we  gain  our  long  reward. 

Oh  !  may  many  a  radiant  gem, 

Souls  redeemed  by  us  from  woe, 
Sparkle  in  the  diadem 

That  our  Leader  shall  bestow. 
Change  and  trial  here  may  come ; 

But  no  grief  may  haunt  the  breast, 
When  we  reach  our  heavenly  home, 

Find  our  everlasting  rest. 

Broken  is  our  household  band, 

Hushed  awhile  our  evening  hymn  ; 
But  there  is  a  better  land, 

Where  no  tears  the  eye  shall  dim ! 
There  is  heard  no  farewell  tone, 

On  that  bright  and  peaceful  shore ; 
There  no  parting  grief  is  known, 

For  they  meet  to  part  no  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

DEEP  within  a  vale 
Our    cottage    stood,  hid    by  embowering 

trees. 
No    idle    footsteps   wandered    near;    no 

voice, 
Save  the  sweet  singing  of  the  birds,  that 

hid 
Their  heads  amid  the  foliage,  and  poured 

forth 

Strains  of  unwonted  melody;  or  where 
The  streamlet  softly  rippled  through  the 

dale, 
Gently  meandering  with  unwearied  song. 


Upon  its  banks,  the  modest  violet, 
The    yellow    cowslip,    and    the    harebell 

grew! 

The  wild   rose,   and   the   eglantine,    per 
fumed 
The  air  with  fragrance,  and  the  mountain 

thyme 

Gave  richer  odor  to  the  balmy  gale, 
That  gently  kissed  it  on  its  rocky  bed. 

To  us,  there  was  a  secret  charm,  which 
gave 

Double  attraction  to  the  attractive  scene: 

It  was  the  charm  of  Love  that  dwelt 
within, 

The  sacred  union  of  congenial  hearts. 

'Twas  this  that  made  the  summer  heaven 
so  bright, 

The  air  so  fragrant,  and  the  gale  so  soft. 

Twas  this  that  gave  such  beauty  to  the 
flowers ; 

And  made  the  porch,  with  rose  and  wood 
bine  twined, 

Seem  like  the  entrance  into  Paradise. 


0  !  'twas  a  luxury  of  bliss  to  dwell 
In  the  sweet  quiet  of  that  pleasant  home — 
To  find  the  lover — husband,  met  in  one; 
The  pride  of  manhood,  and  the  grace  of 

youth ; 

The  lofty  brow — the  intellectual  eye — 
The  voice  whose  tones  of   melody  could 

still 

Awake  a  thrill  of  rapture,  unexpressed 
And   unacknowledged,  once,  to  my   own 

heart ; 

To  love,  and  feel  it  were  no  crime  to  love, 
And  find  that  love  returned,  with  interest; 
To  offer  up  the  incense  of  the  heart, 
A  willing  sacrifice,  unto  our  God 
And   to   each   other — thus    to   share  our 

bliss, 

And  feel  it  but  the  foretaste  of  a  rest 
Beyond   the   grave.     Was   it   not  happi 
ness? 


JAMES   W.  WARD. 


IN  1838,  a  little  book,  entitled  "  Yorick  and  other  Poems,"*  was  printed  at  Cleve 
land.  It  was,  we  believe,  the  first  volume  of  poems  published  in  northern  Ohio,  and 
the  critics  of  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of  that  day  received  it  with  words  of 
generous  encouragement,  though  but  few  had  ever  heard  the  name,  at  the  head  of  this 
page,  by  which  "  Yorick  "  was  known  outside  of  literary  circles. 

James  Warner  Ward  was  born  at  Newark,  New  Jersey,  in  the  year  1818.  His 
father,  who  was  an  influential  bookseller  and  publisher  in  that  city,  died  when  James 
was  four  years  old.  He  grew  to  be  a  studious  lad,  and  was  a  Franklin  medal  boy  in 
the  Boston  High  School.  He  particularly  cultivated  the  natural  sciences,  and  about 
the  time  he  was  promoted  from  boyhood  to  manhood,  became,  at  Cincinnati,  a  favorite 
pupil  of  John  Locke,  Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  Ohio  Medical  College.  Mr. 
Ward  was  a  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  The  Hesperian,  and  other  early 
periodicals  of  the  West,  in  both  prose  and  verse.  He  became  well  known  as  a  bota 
nist,  and  was  associated  with  J.  A.  Warder,  in  1855,  in  the  management  of  The 
Western  Horticultural  Review.  He  was  for  several  years  corrector  of  the  press  and 
literary  referee  of  the  publishing  house  of  Henry  W.  Derby  &  Co.,  and  was,  in  1856 
and  in  1857,  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  Gazette.  Articles  of  merit  from 
his  pen  have  been  published  by  the  American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Science.  He  has  cultivated  music  with  success,  and  is  the  author  of  sacred  pieces 
which  have  been  much  admired  and  widely  used. 

Several  of  Mr.  Ward's  minor  poems  have  been  very  popular.  His  "Musquito 
Song "  was  published  in  a  leading  journal  of  England,  and  commended  as  "  a  fine 
specimen  of  English  poetry."  "  Childish  Wisdom  "  has  been  made  known  as  widely 
as  a  majority  of  the  miscellaneous  journals  of  our  country  are  circulated. 

The  poems  written  by  Mr.  Ward  since  1838,  have  not  been  collected,  but  it  is 
probable  that  he  will  issue  them  before  another  year  expires,  in  a  volume  which  he 
proposes  to  entitle,  "  Home-Made  Verses  and  Stories  in  Rhyme."  It  will  contain 
not  only  the  best  poems  Mr.  Ward  has  contributed  to  the  newspapers  and  magazines, 
but  several  that  have  not  yet  been  given  to  the  public.  Two  of  the  poems  furnished  by 
him  for  this  volume — "Niagara"  and  "The  Autumn  Song" — are  here  first  published. 

Among  the  afterpieces  or  parodies  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow's  "  Hiawatha "  was 
one  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Ward.  It  was  published  in  the  Cincinnati  Gazette  a 
few  days  after  "  Hiawatha  "  reached  that  city.  Its  title  was  "  Higher- Water,"  and 
it  purported  to  be  a  legend  of  disturbance  in  the  dominions  of  Scag-rag,  King  of 
Wharf-rats,  on  account  of  an  unexpected  freshet.  It  contains  many  capital  hits. 
We  quote  a  few  lines,  showing  its  spirit  and  plan : 

*  Yorick  and  other  Poems.    Cleveland,  Ohio  :  Sanford  &  Lett,  1838.    8vo,  pp.  72. 
(255  ) 


256 


JAMES    W.   WARD. 


[1830-40. 


HIGHER-WATER. 


In  the  town  where  swine  are  slaughtered, 

Slaughtered,  pickled,  and  exported, 

Where  the  streets— at  least  'tis  thought  so 

By  the  sparkling  wits  of  Gotham  — 

Where  the  streets  with  blazing  pig-tails, 

Dancing  round  like  jack-o'-lanterns, 

Brightly  are  illumined  nightly  — 

Saving  on  those  dull  nights,  only, 

By  the  calendar  computed, 

When  by  average  calculation 

'Tis  the  lawful  turn  of  moonshine  — 

Where  the  Champagne  will  be  Long  worth 

More  than  Sillery  or  Heidsick — 

Where  the  churches,  meek  as  Moses, 

Have,  as  Moses  had  his  Aaron, 

Steeples  tall  to  hold  their  hands  up  ;— 

Where  the  people  all  are  pious, 

And  the  hams  are  not  West  failures ; — 

In  the  city,  standing  queenly, 

Queenly  standing,  young  and  giddy, 

On  the  banks  of  0-pe-he-le, 

0-pe-he-le,  fickle  river, 

River  never  stationary, 

Up  to-day,  and  down  to-morrow  ; 

Like  the  bonds  of  tardy  railroads, 

Changing  monthly,  changing  hourly  : — 

In  the  city  where  the  cut-throats, 

Flourishing  their  knives  and  cleavers, 

March  in  fierce  processions  yearly  ; 

There,  0  reader,  fair  and  learned, 

There  occurred,  if  you'll  believe  it, 

What  I  now  am  going  to  tell  you  5 

What  I  now  have  come  to  tell  you. 

In  the  city  that  I  spoke  of, 
In  the  town  of  swine  and  slaughter, 
Wh<Te,  for  art  is  young  and  artless, 
Beauty's  line's  a  twisted  pig-tail — 
On  the  landing,  where  the  steamboats 
Stop  for  spare-ribs  and  for  whisky  ; 

The   poet    describes  the  realms  of  Scag-rag  and  how  he  was  informed  by  his 
daughter  of  threatened  danger — how  he  boldly  defied  Higher-water,  and  then  — 

Higher-water,  swelling  proudly, 
Proudly  swelling  down  the  valley, 
On  the  white  wave  he  descended, 
On  0-wah-te-paw,  the  white  wave. 
With  him  came  the  whirling  eddies, 
Came  with  him  Ker-chunk,  the  big  stump, 
Came  the  rolling  logs,  0-wah-sis, 
Came  the  snags,  the  Jag-ger-nag-gers, 


On  the  landing,  broad  and  spacious, 
Stands  a  block  of  ancient  buildings, 
Buildings  long  to  fame  familiar  ; 
Buildings  wholly  dedicated, 
Dedicated,  let  me  tell  you, 
Wholly  unto  love,  believe  me, 
Love  and  sausages  entirely  ; 
Drake  could  tell  you  all  about  it, 
Drake,  great  Drake,  great  Alexander, 
He  could  sing  it,  he  could  tell  it, 
Tell  you  sweetly  all  about  it. 
I,  with  that  must  not  detain  you, 
But  must  hasten  to  conduct  you, 
O  confiding,  trustful  reader, 
To  the  basement  of  the  building, 
To  the  basement  dark  and  dismal, 
To  the  vaults  and  caves  beneath  it, 
To  the  Hob-o-nobs,  the  rat-holes  ; 
Where  are  found  the  hidden  mansions, 
Hidden  cunningly  and  shrewdly, 
Past  all  human  search  or  brutal, 
Mansions  snug  and  warm  and  ample, 
Of  the  terrible,  the  fearful, 
The  indomitable  Scag-rag, 
Scag-rag,  dreadful  king  of  Wharf-rats. 
There  Fitz-ou-me-ou,  the  tom-cat, 
Nor  Ta-bi-a-tha,  the  noiseless, 
Neither  Snar-ley-ou,  the  dog-fiend, 
Nor  the  terrier,  Fiz-zeg-iz-zy, 
Could  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 
All  their  snuffing,  all  their  nosing, 
All  their  creeping,  all  their  prying, 
All  their  digging,  all  their  scratching — 
Find  a  passage  to  the  entrance, 
Find  an  entrance  to  the  passage. 
That  would  lead  them  to  the  chambers 
Of  the  grand  and  grizzly  Scag-rag, 
Scag-rag,  fearful  king  of  Wharf-rats, 
Huge  and  whiskered  king  of  big  rats. 


Came  Sca-wot-che-te,  the  drift-wood, 


Came  Ka-ric-ke-ty,  the  fence-rails, 
Came  the  corn-stalks,  came  the  bark-wood, 
Came  a  pitching  mass  of  plunder, 
Big  sticks,  little  sticks,  and  shavings, 
Swimming,  driving,  butting,  pitching ; 
Rolling,  piling,  thumping,  smashing, 
Heaving,  tumbling,  spinning,  crashing, 
Hither,  thither,  this  side,  that  side — 
What  confusion,  what  a  tumult, 


1830-40.] 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


257 


What  a  roaring,  what  a  surging, 
What  a  mighty  rush  of  waters, 
What  an  army  of  destruction, 
Coining  down  in  wrath  and  i'ury, 
Coming  down  the  handsome  river, 
Coming  down  with  Higher-water, 
Filled  with  raging,  mad  with  fury, 
Rushing  down  to  tight  the  big  rats, 
To  o'erwhelm  the  skulking  Wharf-rats 
In  an  all-destroying  deluge. 
On  the  mid-most,  top-most  billow, 
On  the  wave  that  surged  the  highest, 
On  0-wah-te-paw,  the  white  wave, 
Seated  on  a  bridled  cat-fish, 
On  Soc-dol-o-ger,  the  cat-fish, 
Rode  with  bearing  magisterial, 
Fearful,  unrelenting  brigand, 
Rodu  the  lofty  Higher-water  ; 
Just  behind  him,  with  the  baggage, 


Swam  Mik-nok,  the  mapping-turtle, 

Swam  behind  him  with  the  baggage, 
Mik-nok,  prince  of  snapping-turtles. 
Thus  he  came,  was  thus  attended, 
He,  the-  ruthless  Higher-water, 
Sweeping  down  the  handsome  river. 
Fled  the  minks,  and  fled  the  musk-rats, 
Fled  the  craw-fish  in  their  terror, 
Fled  the  otters,  fled  the  beavers, 
Fled  the  snakes,  and  fled  the  field-mice, 
All  was  flight,  and  haste,  and  panic, 
As  the  gathering  force  swept  onward  ; 
Not  a  creature  stayed  or  lingered, 
Not  a  stump  could  keep  its  footing, 
Not  a  plank  of  any  platform 
Could  maintain  its  loose  position  ; 
Every  thing  was  put  in  motion, 
As  the  flood  poured  down  the  valley. 


To  combat  did  Higher-water  challenge  Scag-rag,  who  hastened  away  to  a  sacred 
place  in  the  empire  of  Bam-ba-loo-za,  and  summoned  a  trio  — 


Three  pre-eminently  holy. 
Who,  for  service  long  and  faithful, 
Had  received  the  gift  of  power  : 
Power  of  action  and  of  suffering, 
Power  of  duty  and  of  triumph, 


Power  resistless  and  unyielding, 
Gift  supreme,  supreme  endowment 
Of  the  ancient  Bam-ba-loo-za, 
To  the  wises*  and  the  truest, 
To  the  purest  of  his  children. 


The  trio  answered  the  King's  pathetic  appeal  for  "  help  in  time  of  need,"  and  — 


See,  upon  the  waters  swimming, 
Swimming  boldly  on  the  water, 
Straight  as  goes  a  line  of  railroad, 
Tow'rd  the  middle  of  the  river, 
Go  the  holy  three  together  ; 
Side  by  side  together  swimming, 
Firm  in  faith  and  strong  in  courage, 
Never  wavering,  never  doubting, 
Never  questioning  or  pausing, 
To  the  middle  of  the  river 
Onward  move  these  three  together. 
There  they  took  a  moment's  breathing, 
Paused  a  moment,  then  proceeded  ; 

To  the  bottom  of  the  river, 
Plunged  incontinently  head  first ; 

Scag-rag  was  therefore  conqueror;  Higher-water  no  longer  invaded  his  domin 
ions,  and  there  was  great  rejoicing  among  his  grateful  subjects. 

In  1859,  Mr.  Ward  went  from  Cincinnati  to  New  York  city,  where  he  devotes 
himself  to  musical  and  metrical  composition,  and  to  various  duties  connected  with  the 
business  of  extensive  publishing  houses. 


Cracked  the  bottom  with  their  strong  heads, 
With  their  strong  heads,  with  their  stout  heads 
Knocked  a  piece  out,  knocked  a  hole  in, 
And  went  through  without  a  scratch,  Sir, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  good  rats, 
To  the  land  of  their  hereafter. 

Like  the  water  through  a  tunnel, 
Like  the  water  from  a  bottle, 
Like  the  water  down  a  tin  spout, 
Whirling  in  a  mighty  whirlpool, 
Through  the  opening  swiftly  sinking, 
Went  the  waters  of  the  river, 
Of  the  swelling  0-pe-he-le. 


17 


258 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


[1830-40. 


SONG  OF  THE  MUSQUITO. 


IN  the  dreamy  hour  of  night  I'll  hie, 
When  the  hum  is  hushed  of  the  weary  fly. 
When  the  lamps  are  lit,  and  the  curtains 

drawn, 
And  sport  on  my  wings  till  the  morning's 

dawn. 
In  the  halls  where  the  hours  go  joyously 

by, 

In  the  chamber  hushed  where  the  sleepers 

lie, 
In  the  garden-bower,  where  the  primrose 

smiles. 

And  the  chirping  cricket  the  hour  beguiles ; 
In  these  I'll    sport  through  the  summer 

night, 
And  mortals  to  vex,  I'll  bite,  I'll  bite. 

ii. 

There  is  one  I  view  with  a  hostile  eye ; 

A  flame  of  pride  in  his  breast  I  spy ; 

He  breathes  in  the  flute  with  a  master's 

skill, 

And  list'ning  crowds  the  rich  strains  fill 
With  the  rapturous  thrill  of  melody  ; 
But  he  carries  his  head  so  haughtily, 
I'll  play  him  a  trick ;  in  his  happiest  swell 
When  the   lingering  trill,  with   a   magic 

spell, 

Holds  all  entranced,  I'll  take  my  flight, 
And  pop  on  his  nose,  and  I'll  bite,  I'll  bite 

in. 

There's  a  poet  I  know ;  in  the  still  mid 
night 

He  plies  the  pen  by  a  taper's  light ; 

And,  wearied  of  earth,  in  a  world  of  his 
own, 

With  fancy  he  rambles,  where  flowers  are 
strewn 

Of  fadeless  hue,  and  he  images  there 

A  creature  to  worship  in  the  pure  still  air 


With  the  world  around  from  his  sense  shut 

out, 

He  heeds  not  the  buzz  of  my  round-about, 
And  when  a  new  image  has  broke  on  his 

sight, 
Ere  he  gives  it  existence,  I'll  bite,  I'll  bite. 

IV. 

And  the  long-courted  vision  shall  vanish, 
while  I, 

In  a  snug  little  corner,  will  watch  him  so 
shy, 

As  he  thumps  his  brow  in  a  feverish  rage, 

And  dashes  his  pen  o'er  the  blotted  page. 

And  I  see  a  young  maid  in  her  chamber 
napping, 

And  I  know  that  love  at  her  heart  is  tap 
ping; 

She  dreams  of  a  youth,  and  smiles  in  bliss, 

As  she  puts  up  her  lips  to  receive  his  fond 
kiss ; 

But  she  shall  not  taste  of  the  gentle  de 
light, 

For  I'll  light  on  her  lips,  and -I'll  bite,  I'll 
bite. 


THE  WORD  OF  PROMISE. 


WHEN  o'er  thy  heart  comes  sorrow's  blight, 
As  o'er  the  day  steal  shades  of  night ; 
When  hope  has  fled, 
And  joy  is  dead, 

And  thy  head  in  wretchedness  bends  down 
Beneath  the  weight  of  fortune's  frown ; 
When  summer  friends  pass  by 
And  tears  bedim  thine  eye  ; — 
Receive  the  promise  trustingly, 
"  As  is  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be," 

II. 

When  earth  has  proved  a  mockery, 
And  faith  and  love,  still  sought  by  thee, 


1830-40.] 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


259 


Approach  no  more, 
Thy  humble  door ; 
And  hearts  thy  innocence  reject, 
That  once  would  shrink  from  such  neglect ; 
And  falsehood  mocks,  and  pride 
And  folly  thee  deride  ; — 
Be  firm,  the  promise  speaks  to  thee, 
"  As  is  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be." 

in. 

When  sickness  wastes  thy  feeble  blood, 
And,  as  the  worm  the  opening  bud, 

Destroys  thy  life ; 

And  a  feverish  strife 
Is  raging  in  thy  aching  breast, 
Robbing  thy  pillow  of  its  rest ; 
When  every  nerve  is  pained, 
And  every  fiber  strained 
To  agony  ; — 'tis  promised  thee, 
"  As  is  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be." 

IV. 

When  helpless  age  shall  overtake 
Thy  weary  years,  and  thou  shalt  wake 

From  hope's  dear  dream, 

O'er  life  supreme, 

Whose  promised  pleasures  never  came, 
In  youth  and  manhood,  still  the  same — 
Shalt  wake  to  wither  then, 
A  blank  in  sight  of  men, 
Tottering  and  weak; — God  speaks  to  thee 
"  As  is  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be." 

v. 

And  when  in  that  uncertain  hour 
Comes  Death,  with  Heaven-commissioned 
power, 

To  bear  thy  soul 
Beyond  life's  goal ; 
And  life  is  lingering,  loth  to  go, 
And  the  pulse  is  beating  faint  and  slow, 
And  the  soul  its  weakness  feels, 
As  eternity  reveals 
Its  mysteries  ; — Faith  whispers  thee, 
"  As  is  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be." 


AUTUMN  SONG. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come, 
The  saddest  of  the  year. 

Bryant. 

THE  merry-making  days  are  come, 

The  gayest  of  the  year ; 
When  summer's  dust  and  heat  are  past, 

And  the  air  is  sharp  and  clear. 

The  day  with  social  comforts  rife, 

The  day  of  mirth  and  glee; 
The  season  when  earth's  jovial  saint 

Shakes  off  his  lethargy. 

The  wrestling  winds,  in  pastime,  heave 

The  trees  athlete  and  stout ; 
And  underneath  their  writhing  limbs 

The  leaves  are  whirled  about. 

The  rabbit  gallops,  wild  with  life, 
With  brisk  and  crackling  tread ; 

The  dogs  with  tingling  blood  pursue — 
Who  mourns  the  summer  fled  ? 

The  summer,  silent  and  oppressed 

With  dullness  and  repose ; 
When,    through    the   languid    pulse,   the 
blood 

In  weary  ripples  flows. 

But  now,  it  springs  and  bounds  along, 

With  weariness  at  strife ; 
Man,  like  a  prancing  courser,  pants 

With  energy  and  life. 

Who  mourns  the  summer?     Rather,  who 

With  rapture  welcomes  not 
The  bracing  breeze,  the  quickened  heart, 

The  drowsy  days  forgot  ? 

The  woods  with  life  and  joy  resound, 

The  solitude  is  glad, 
Music  on  every  bough  is  heard, 

There's  not  a  creature  sad. 


260 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


[1830-40. 


Now,  when  the  grasshoppers  lie  still 

And  torpid  on  the  ground, 
Spiders  desert  their  looms,  and  flies 

In  sheltered  holes  are  found ; 

When  the  beetle  hides  beneath  the  bark, 
With  hushed  and  folded  wing ; 

And  honey -fattened  chrysalids 
In  silken  hammocks  swing ; 

And  all  the  noisy  insect  race, 

A  rich,  inviting  spoil, 
Are  into  winter  quarters  gone, 

Weary  of  summer's  toil ; — 

Now,  to  our  gardens  and  our  woods, 

With  voices  gay  and  sweet, 
Come  back  the  singing  birds,  dispersed 

By  summer's  sultry  heat ; 

The  social  robin,  and  the  wren 

Piping  his  triple  lay  ; 
The  red-bird  and  the  sparrow, 

And  the  acorn-hunting  jay. 

In  troops  they  come,  with  chattering  call 

And  dainty  melody, 
Winning  our  ears  their  songs  to  hear, 

Our  eyes  their  plumes  to  see. 

Not  one  is  missing ;  night  and  morn 

They  gambol  in  and  out 
The  breezy  woods,  and  pipe  and  chirp, 

A  gay,  delirious  rout. 

Ho,  for  the  Autumn  ! — for  the  days 

Of  vigorous  delights ; 
For  scudding  clouds,  and  flying  gales, 

And  clear  and  sparkling  nights. 

Who  mourns  the  Summer  ?     Rather,  whc 

With  rapture  welcomes  not 
The  bracing  breeze,  the  quickened  heart, 

And  drowsy  days  forgot  ? 


NIAGARA. 

RAPT  in  amazement,  awe  and  wonder  fill 
ing  me, 

Stood  I  alone,  in  silence,  gazing  thoughtfully, 

Gazing,  delighted,  down  the  brink  bewil 
dering, 

Whence,  with  a  proud  consent,  thy  waters 
tranquilly, 

Placidly,  take  their  fearful  leap,  Niagara. 

Solemnly,  slowly,  calm  in  conscious  majesty, 
Bubble  and  spray,  arid  twinkling  drop,  all 

vanishing, 

There,  in  a  long,  unbroken  front,  as  steadily, 
Firm  and  united,  sweeps  a  line  of  infantry, 
Leapeth  thy  smooth  and  liquid  mass,  col 
lectedly. 

So  have  I  seen — ah,  river  wild  and  beau 
tiful, 

Not  only  thus  resemblest  thou  our  gifted 
ones — 

So  have  I  seen  descend,  serene  and  confi 
dent, 

Genius  no  more,  nor  sparkling  wit,  adorn 
ing  it, 

Down  to  the  tomb,  the  poet's  soul,  sub 
missively. 

In  the  fierce  rapids,  where  the  sharp  rocks, 
secretly, 

Under  the  flowing  current,  lie  in  wait  for 
thee, 

Cutting  and  lashing  thy  torn  bosom  wan 
tonly, 

There  art  thou  like,  0  River,  sad  simili 
tude, 

Like  the  same  soul  with  life-toil  struggling 
manfully. 

Hither  and  thither  whirled,  in  eddies  in 
finite, 

Winding  and  turning,  still  progressing  end 
lessly, 

Thus  art  thou  dashed  and  driven ;  and  thus 
as  turbulent, 


1830-40.] 


JAMES    W.    WARD. 


261 


Whirleth  the  poet's  spinning  brain,  in 
cessantly  ; 

Often,  poor  brain,  dashed  round  on  waves 
tempestuous. 

Cometh  an  end  ere  long  to  toil  and  mock 
ery; 

Enemies,  cares  and  shows,  and  juggling 
fripperies, 

Tinsel  enticements,  masks,  and  life-worn 
vanities — 

What  hath  the  waking  soul,  redeemed,  re 
generate, 

Whisp'ring  with  death,  to  do  with  these  im 
pediments  ? 

E'en  as  thy  waters,  here,  in  calm  transpa 
rency, 

Bend  o'er  the  brink  of  this  abyss  precipi 
tous, 

Shimmering  foam,  and  froth,  and  flashing 
jewelry, 

Scattered  behind  thee — so,  in  sweet  seren 
ity, 

Freed  from  its  clogs,  the  soul  puts  on  eter 
nity. 

Haste  there  is  none,  but  only  strength  and 
readiness ; 

Baubles  and  shams  are  put  aside  disdain 
fully ; 

Nothing  beyond  can  pass  but  truth  and 
purity ; 

So  on  thy  breast  is  nothing  seen,  Niagara, 

Save  the  blue  image  of  the  deep  sky  over 
thee. 

NOTE. — The  versification  of  this  poem,  which  is  now  first 
published,  is  peculiar,  and  perhaps  new ;  so  far  as  the 
author  is  concerned,  it  is  quite  so.  It  was  constructed 
incidentally  to  a  defense  of  the  English  hexameter,  as  es 
pecially  exemplified  in  ;'Evangeline,"  the  most  charming 
and  musical  poem  of  American  origin.  The  English 
language  is  manifestly  capable  of  rich,  fluent,  and  har 
monious  expression,  not  only  in  hexameters  and  pen 
tameters,  but  in  other  as  yet  unusual,  and  perhaps 
unconstructed,  meters.  It  is  believed  there  is  no  varia 
tion  or  fault  in  the  above  verses  (or  lines);  each  one  is 
like  any  and  every  other,  and  consists  of  five  feet ;  a 
dactyl,  three  trochees  (one  of  which  may  be  a  spondee), 
and  a  dactyl.  In  reading,  the  peculiar  accent  of  the  dac 
tyl  should  be  regularly  observed. 


CHILDISH  WISDOM. 

'TwAS  the  hour  of  prayer ;  and  the  fanner 

stood, 

With  a  thankful  heart  and  a  lowly  mind, 
And  prayed  to  the  Author  of  every  good, 
That  the  Father  of  all  would  be  very 

kind, 
And  bless  His  creatures  with  raiment  and 

food  ; 

That  the  blessing  each  day  might  be  re 
newed, 

That  every  want  might  find  relief, 
And  plenty  for  hunger,  joy  for  grief, 
Be  measured  out  by  the  merciful  One, 
To  all  who  suffered  beneath  the  sun. 

The  prayer  concluded,  the  godly  man 
Went  forth  in  peace  to  inspect  his  farm; 

And  by  his  side,  delighted  ran, 

Glowing  with  every  healthful  charm, 

His  little  son,  a  sprightly  boy, 

Whose  home  was  love,  and  whose  life  was 

j°y- 

And  they  rambled  over  the  golden  fields  ; 
And  the  father  said,  "  The  harvest  yields 
A  plentiful  crop,  my  son,  this  year ; 
My  barns  are  too  small  for  the  grain,  I 
fear." 

And  they  wandered  on,  through  row  upon 

row 

Of  plumy  sheaves,  and  at  length  the  child, 
With  earnest  look,  and  a  rosy  glow 

On  his  shining  cheek,  looked  up   and 

smiled, 

And  said,  "  My  father,  do  you  not  pray 
For  the  poor  and  needy  day  by  day, 
That   God   the   good   would   the   hungry 

feed?" 
"  I  do,  my  son."     "  Well  I  think,  as  you 

plead  "— 
His  eye  waxed  bright,  for  his  soul  shone 

through  it — 
"  That  God,  if  he  had  your  wheat,  would 

do  it." 


262 


JAMES    W .   WARD. 


[1830-40. 


THE  SUNBEAM. 

SITTING,  musing,  one  bright  day, 
In  a  quiet,  dreamy  sort  of  way — 

A  way  I'm  often  in — 
Amused  'neath  Fancy's  strange  control, 
To  watch  the  phantoms  of  the  soul 

Their  comedies  begin ; 

To  see,  down  deep  into  my  heart, 
The  fairy  figures  Hit  and  start, 

Upon  the  long,  dim  stage, 
Acting  their  parts  so  cleverly, 
With  magic  art  and  revelry, 

My  favor  to  engage. 

And  often  thus  my  hours  are  passed, 
Regardless  that  I  thence  am  classed, 

By  those  who  only  see 
The  idle  hands  the  brain  that  press, 
With  such  as  waste  in  idleness, 

The  moments  as  they  flee. 

A  little  child  with  life  abounding, 
My  fairy  pantomime  confounding, 

Was  rushing  like  a  storm  ; 
It  wound  the  clock  of  life  anew, 
And  set  it  back  a  year  or  two, 

To  see  the  rogue  perform. 

The  sunbeam  streamed  across  his  way, 
Straight  as  the  path  to  endless  day ; 

A  cord  of  golden  light 
Stretched  from  the  window  to  the  floor, 
With  twinkling  motes  bespangled  o'er, 

Like  a  comet's  train  at  night. 

The  boy  was  driving,  might  and  main, 
His  charger  in  and  out  again, 

When  suddenly  he  stopped ; 
The  golden  cord  his  dark  eye  won ; 
A  new  emotion  was  begun, 

O          * 

And  down  the  broomstick  dropped. 

His  little  hand  was  then  applied, 
And  many  a  time  the  feat  was  tried, 
To  grasp  the  sparkling  train  ; 


His  dumpy  fist  would  ope  and  close, 
Translucent  as  the  ruby  rose  ; 
But  each  attempt  was  vain. 

Long  time,  with  persevering  zeal, 
He  strove,  resolved  the  thing  to  feel ; 

And  then  he  seized  his  broom, 
And  gave  it  up  and  gaily  cried, 
"  I'll  see  what's  on  the  other  side," 

And  galloped  from  the  room. 

And  then  I  thought,  how  many  such, 
The  semblance  for  the  substance  clutch, 

Like  moths,  deceived  by  glare ! 
Children  of  riper  age,  whose  life 
Is  wasted  in  the  fruitless  strife 

For  shadows  thin  as  air  ! 

Won  by  the  glitter  and  the  show, 
How  many  life's  true  aim  forego, 

Misled  by  Mammon's  lust ; 
To  gather  gold  their  powers  exhaust, 
And  find  their  wealth,  when  life  is  lost, 

Illuminated  dust ! 

Ah,  happy,  who,  more  wisely  led, 
Can  see  the  vail  of  trial  spread, 

Like  a  shadow  deep  and  wide, 
Before  his  soul ;  and  pure  and  bright, 
The  eternal  source  of  truth  and  light, 

Find  on  the  other  side. 


EPIGRAM. 

'Tis  said  that  man  o'er  woman  justly  ranks; 

This  to  disprove  will  merit  woman's  thanks. 

Woman's  an  angel,  all  mankind  declares — 

To  this  the  witness  resolutely  swears ; 

Woman's  an  angel — let  the  precept  stand. 

Mark  how  its  truth  his  pride  will  repri 
mand  ; 

For  man — the  text,  not  me,  he  must  up 
braid — 

Was  little  lower  than  the  angels  made. 


JAMES   B.   MARSHALL. 


JAMES  BIRNEY  MARSHALL — a  member  of  the  Marshall  family  of  Kentucky, 
which  is  distinguished  in  oratory  as  well  as  in  song — was  one  of  the  early  literary  edi 
tors  and  publishers  of  the  West.  He  purchased  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  in  1836,  and 
changing  its  name  to  The  Buckeye,  published  it  for  a  few  months.  In  1837  he  pur 
chased  the  Western  Monthly,  which  had  been  conducted  by  James  Hall,  and  the  Lit 
erary  Journal,  which  was  edited  by  William  D.  Gallagher,  and  merged  them  under 
the  name  of  Western  Monthly  Magazine  and  Literary  Review.  The  Magazine  and  Re 
view  was  published  simultaneously  at  Louisville  and  at  Cincinnati,  William  D.  Gal 
lagher  being  associated  with  Mr.  Marshall  in  its  editorship.  It  was  unsuccessful,  and 
Mr.  Marshall  then  turned  his  attention  to  political  writing.  He  has  been  connected 
with  several  influential  political  papers  in  Kentucky  and  in  Ohio.  In  1857  he  suc 
ceeded  Samuel  Medary  as  editor  of  the  Ohio  Statesman  at  Columbus.  In  1858  he 
was  one  of  the  editors  of  The  Capital  City  Fact,  and  was  official  reporter  for  the 
Ohio  Senate  in  1858  and  in  1859. 

Mr.  Marshall  now  resides  in  Cincinnati.  He  is  about  fifty  years  of  age.  Nearly 
all  the  poems  he  has  written  were  published  in  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  the  Western 
Literary  Journal. 


TO  EVA :  IN  HER  ALBUM. 

TOUCH  gently  with  thy  taper  finger, 

The  string  of  some  lov'd  lute, — 
The  cherish'd  sound  will  with  thee  linger, 

E'en  when  the  string  is  mute. 
And  thus  I'd  have  thy  thoughts  recur, 

When  far  away  from  thee, 
To  him  who  leaves  a  tribute  here 

For  friendship's  memory. 

Over  the  azure  sky  above, 

Clouds  sweep  in  caravans, 
But  still  the  star  we  watch  and  love, 

In  memory  remains  ; 
And  even  through  their  dusky  forms, 

O'ershadowing  earth  and  sea, 
As  fiercely  driv'n  by  winter-storms, 

That  star  is  bright  to  me. 


Go  grave  thy  name  upon  the  stone 

O'er  which  the  brooklet  hies, 
And  though  with  moss  it  be  o'ergrown, 

And  hid  to  duller  eyes, 
Yet  from  the  eye  of  love  that  name 

Can  never  be  effaced, — 
Time-covered,  'twill  as  plainly  seem 

As  though  but  newly  traced. 

When  starry  night  doth  wane  away 

Beneath  the  sun's  gay  gleam, 
Do  we  forget  the  moon's  pale  ray 

Lost  in  a  gaudier  beam  ? 
Oh  with  the  stars,  I'd  have  thee  keep 

My  friendship's  memory, 
And   when    I   gaze   on   heaven's   blue 
deep, 

I'll  fondly  think  of  thee. 


(263) 


JAMES  G.  DRAKE. 


JAMES  G.  DRAKE  was  the  youngest  member  of  a  family  celebrated  in  the  dramatic 
annals  of  the  West.  His  father,  Samuel  Drake,  and  his  brothers,  Alexander  and 
Samuel,  were,  for  many  years,  great  favorites  among  our  play-loving  citizens.  His 
sister,  Julia  Drake,  mother  of  William  W.  Fosdick  the  poet,  by  her  first,  and  of 
Julia  Dean  the  actress,  by  her  second  husband,  was  also  a  favorite.  James  G.  had 
talent  for  the  stage,  but  never  indulged  it.  He  is  known  to  the  public  chiefly  as  a 
song  writer.  His  "  Tom  Breeze,"  "  Parlez  Bas,"  and  other  melodious  songs,  have 
been  widely  admired.  He  was,  nearly  all  his  life,  a  resident  of  Louisville,  Kentucky, 
and  he  died  in  that  city  on  the  thirteenth  day  of  May,  1850. 

The  Drake  family  was  English,  but  emigrated  to  the  United  States  when  the  elder 
brothers  were  minors,  and  soon  after  came  to  the  West.  James  G.  was  the  latest  sur 
vivor.  The  family  name  does  not  now  appear  in  dramatic  records,  though  two  of  its 
descendants  are  conspicuous  actresses,  Julia  Dean  Hayne,  above  alluded  to,  and  Julia 
Drake  Chapman,  daughter  of  Alexander  Drake,  who  married  Julia  Dennie,  celebrat 
ed  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  as  a  tragic  actress,  but  now  living  in  retirement. 


PARLEZ  BAS. 

PARLEZ  bas !     The  moon  is  up, 

And  o'er  the  sleepy  throng 
The  mocking-bird's  high  notes  are  heard, 

In  wild  and  witching  song — 
No  eye  shall  trace  thy  footsteps  here, 
But  fear  thee  not  while  love  is  near. 

Parlez  bas  !     Though  here  we  meet 

In  silence  deep,  alone, 
No  guilty  thoughts  disturb  our  souls, 

Nor  wish  we  fear  to  own. 
Pure  as  the  light  yon  orb  imparts, 
Shall  be  the  meeting  of  our  hearts. 


Parlez  bas  !     A  genial  breath 
Is  wandering  o'er  earth's  flowers  ; 


Their  fragrance  mingles  with  thy  voice, 

And  holy  joy  is  ours. 
Parlez  bas  !  and  let  each  tone 
Echo  the  fondness  of  mine  own. 

Parlez  bas!     And  now  repeat 
The  vow  those  lips  once  made ; 

Mine  is  a  love  that  cannot  change, 
A  heart  that  ne'er  betrayed. 

O  say  that  thou  wilt  love  me  still, 

Through  storm  or  sunshine,  good  or  ill. 

Parlez  bas !     I  bless  thy  words, 

The  last  that  I  may  hear ; 
Sweet  on  my  brow  thy  breath  I  feel, 

Upon  my  cheek  thy  tear. 
Now  take  thee  to  thy  bed  and  rest, 
And  be  thou  bless'd  as  I  am  bless'd. 


(264) 


HARVEY  RICE. 


HARVEY  RICE  is  a  native  of  Massachusetts.  He  was  born  on  the  eleventh  day  of 
June,  1800.  Having  graduated  at  Williams  College,  he  emigrated  to  the  West  and 
settled  at  Cleveland,  in  1824,  where  he  opened  a  classical  school,  and  began  to  read 
law  in  the  office  of  Reuben  Wood,  afterward  Governor  of  Ohio.  In  1826  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  when  he  entered  into  partnership  with  Mr.  Wood.  In  1829,  he 
was  elected  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  in  1830  was  chosen  by  the  Democrats  of 
Cuyahoga  county,  as  a  Representative  in  the  General  Assembly.  The  same  year  he 
was  appointed  agent  for  the  sale  of  the  Western  Reserve  School  Lands,  a  tract  of 
fifty  thousands  acres,  situated  in  what  is  known  as  the  Virginia  Military  District  of 
Ohio.  He  opened  an  office  in  Millersburg,  Holmes  county,  and  in  the  course  of  three 
years  sold  all  the  lands ;  the  avails  of  which,  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  were  paid  into  the  State  Treasury,  and  now  form  a  part  of  the  Irreducible 
Debt  of  Ohio,  on  which  six  per  cent,  interest  is  paid,  for  the  support  of  Common  Schools. 

In  1833  Mr.  Rice  returned  to  Cleveland,  and  was  appointed  Clerk  of  the  Common 
Pleas  Court  of  Cuyahoga  county.  In  1834,  and  again  in  1836,  he  was  the  Demo 
cratic  candidate  for  Congress  in  the  Cleveland  District.  He  was  the  first  Democrat 
sent  to  the  Legislature  from  Cleveland,  and  by  his  efforts  the  first  Democratic  news 
paper,  published  in  Cleveland,  was  established.  In  1828  it  was  known  as  the 
Independent  News  Letter.  In  1829  Mr.  Rice  was  the  editor.  It  is  now  The  Cleve 
land  Plain  Dealer. 

In  1851  Mr.  Rice  was  elected  to  the  State  Senate  by  a  handsome  majority  over 
two  competitors.  He  was  therefore  a  member  of  the  first  General  Assembly  of  Ohio, 
under  its  second  Constitution — a  General  Assembly  upon  which  devolved  the  respon 
sibility  of  reconstructing  the  Statutes  of  the  State.  Mr.  Rice  was  an  influential  mem 
ber  of  the  Senate.  He  was  the  author  of  the  bill,  which  became  a  law,  reorganizing 
the  Common  School  system,  and  establishing  new  features — which  the  friends  of  popu 
lar  education  declared  to  be  of  primary  importance — among  which  may  be  mentioned 
the  just  recognition  of  the  doctrine  that  the  property  of  the  State  should  educate  the 
children  of  the  State ;  that  the  school  system  should  have  an  authorized  head,  and 
that  school  libraries  are  expedient. 

Mr.  Rice  has  been  twice  married.  He  is  now  a  citizen  of  Cleveland,  in  the  enjoy 
ment  of  a  well-earned  income,  which  permits  him,  free  from  the  cares  of  business,  to 
give  liberal  attention  to  enterprises  designed  to  promote  moral  reforms  and  disseminate 
intelligence.  In  early  life  he  contributed  frequently  to  leading  periodicals,  but  for  a 
few  years  past,  has  oftener  revised  the  poems  of  other  years  than  composed  new  ones. 
In  1859  he  collected  his  poems.  The  third  edition,  enlarged,  has  been  issued,  in  a 
handsome  volume  of  179  duodecimo  pages,  by  Follett,  Foster  &  Co.,  Columbus,  Ohio. 
It  is  entitled  '-Mt.  Vernon  and  other  Poems." 

(  205  ) 


266 


HARVEY    RICE. 


[1840-50. 


THE  FAR  WEST. 

O  WHERE,  think  ye,  is  now  the  West  ? 

The  far,  far  West,  the  land  of  dreams, 
Whose  hills  and  vales,  with  virgin  breast, 
Still  slumber  in  their  ancient  rest, 

Lulled  by  the  voice  of  plaintive  streams 

From  Mexico,  where  airs  are  bland, 

To  Oregon's  impetuous  flood, 
Already  vale  and  mountain  land 
Resound  to  that  advancing  band, 

Who  proudly  boast  of  Yankee  blood ! 

Nor  distant  is  the  day,  perchance, 

When  yet  these  sons  of  valiant  sires 
Shall  win  their  way,  by  love  or  lance, 
To  sunnier  climes,  and  e'en  advance 
Beyond  the  Equator's  solar  fires. 

Thus  race  to  race  must  ever  yield, 

And  mental  power  assume  the  sway; 
Broad  as  the  earth  the  ample  field, 
For  those  who  trust  in  virtue's  shield, 
And  Freedom's  banner  dare  display. 

The  far,  far  West,  'tis  Freedom's  now. 

The  gift  of  God  to  earth's  oppressed, 
The  land  where  all,  who  take  the  vow, 
No  more  to  king  or  priest  to  bow, 

May  come,  and  find  their  wrongs  re 
dressed. 

Aye,  there  shall  happy  millions  yet 

Reclaim  the  soil,  and  crowd  the  mart ; 
Freemen,  who  thrive  by  toil  and  sweat, 
Sprinkling  the  waste  with  cities,  set 
On  hill  and  plain,  like  gems  of  Art. 

And  there  shall  thought  yet  fly  afar 

Along  the  wire,  from  climes  remote, 
And  blend  with  thought,  like  star  with  star, 
While  startling  rolls  the  frantic  car, 
And  bannered  glides  the  gallant  boat. 


And  there,  unawed,  the  mind  of  man, 
Progressive  still,  shall  still  aspire ; 
Nor  yield  to  creeds  that  fear  to  scan 
The  mystic  lore  of  Nature's  plan, 
But  still,  insatiate,  aim  the  higher ! 

In  sooth,  it  needs  no  prophet's  eye, 

Westward  to  Ocean's  calmer  surge, 
To  see  the  future  there  outvie 
The  ancient  world,  whose  glories  lie 
Pillared  on  Time's  receding  verge  ! 

0  what,  when  centuries  have  rolled, 

Will  be  this  mighty  Western  Land  ? 
Her  sons — will  they  be  brave  and  bold, 
And  still  defend  her  banner's  fold  ? 
Her  holy  altars — will  they  stand  ? 

The  link  that  binds  the  Sisterhood, 

Say,  will  it  brighten  and  grow  strong, 
And  men  bear  rule,  the  great  and  good, 
Who  shun  dissension,  strife,  and  blood, 
Yet  cleave  to  right,  nor  yield  to  wrong? 

Fear  not!  with  holier  influence  yet, 

The  years  shall  come  which  God  ordains; 

When  Freedom's  bounds  shall  not  be  set, 

Nor  man  his  fellow  man  forget, 
In  blind  pursuit  of  sordid  gains  ! 


THE  VISIONARY. 

A  CHILD  of  genius — born — 

Not  bred  in  schools, 
He  scorns  the  world's  proud  scorn, 

Though  ranked  with  fools, 
And  holds  a  converse  that's  refined 
With  Nature,  and  with  Nature's  Mind. 

Nor  does  he  delve  with  those 

Who  delve  for  gold  ; 
But,  rapt  in  calm  repose, 

Like  seer  of  old, 


1840-50.] 


HARVEY    RICE. 


267 


He  walks  with  God  the  stellar  deep, 
Where  tides  of  light  unbounded  sweep. 

And  wonders  why  were  made 

The  earth  and  stars, 
"Whose  music  rolls,  unstayed, 

In  golden  bars ; 

Nor  strives  to  quench  the  subtle  fire 
That  wakes  his  soul  to  high  desire. 

Though  all  that  man  calls  great, 

Should  he  attain, 
It  would  not — could  not  sate 

His  burning  brain ; 

For  he  would  reach  the  source  of  light, 

And  share,  enthroned,  the  Almighty's 

might ! 

Thus  lost  in  thought  that's  free, 

And  manifold, 
He  ever  drifts  at  sea — 

Starless,  and  bold ; 
Yet  cannot  break  the  imperial  seal 
Of  fate,  nor  life's  dark  myth  reveal ! 


THE  BIRTH  OF  BEAUTY. 

BY  Nature's  hand,  though  all 

Was  made  complete ; 
Still,  in  her  Palace  Hall, 

No  twinkling  feet, 
Or  graceful  form  that's  tall, 

Or  smile  that's  sweet, 
Had  yet  obeyed  her  call ! — 

And  so  she  racked  her  brain, 
And  culled  sweet  flowers ; 

Tall  lilies  from  the  plain, 
And  from  the  bowers 

Roses,  and  from  the  main 
Cosmetic  powers ; 

From  birds,  their  sweetest  strain. 

Combining  these,  she  wrought 
A  perfect  charm ; 


And  gave  it  grace  and  thought, 
And  faith  that's  calm  ; 

When  man  the  vision  caught 
In  his  strong  arm, 

And  claimed  it — as  he  ought ! 

And  blessed  his  happy  lot, 
Which  now  made  earth 

An  Eden — every  spot — 
Since  Beauty's  birth ; 

Whose  smile  still  cheers  his  cot, 
His  home  and  hearth, 

An  angel — is  she  not  ? 


A  CONCEIT. 

OLD  Father  Time,  with  nod  sublime, 

And  hammer  in  his  hand, 
Proclaims  aloud,  as  from  a  cloud, 

The  sale  of  sea  and  land, 

With  hammer  in  his  hand  ! 

Ask  not  for  grace,  but  take  your  place, 

And  hear  him  cry  the  sale ; 
He  speaks  in  tones  that  shatter  thrones, 

Nor  lists  to  those  who  wail ; 

Ah,  hear  him  cry  the  sale  ! 

Before  him  lies  full  many  a  prize, 

In  rich  array  displayed ; 
Yes,  all  that's  dear  to  mortals  here, 

Of  life,  its  light,  and  shade, 

In  rich  array  displayed. 

He  breaks  life's  spell,  nor  grieves  to  sell 
Fond  hopes  to  which  we  cling ; 

Honor  and  fame,  and  wealth  and  name, 
Vain  things — what  will  they  bring  ? 
Fond  hopes  to  which  we  cling ! 

He  spareth  naught,  not  e'en  a  thought, 

Though  beautiful  and  true ; 
But  strikes  dotfn  all,  then  flings  a  pall, 

And  screens  the  world  from  view, 

The  beautiful  and  true  !  — 


268 


HARVEY    RICE. 


[1840-50. 


Nor  does  he  wait  at  Heaven's  high  gate, 

Nor  does  he  shed  a  tear ; 
But  breaks  the  bars  and  smites  the  stars, 

And  dark  grows  every  sphere ; 

Nor  does  he  shed  a  tear !  — 

But   doomed   now   dies,  'neath   blacken'd 
skies, 

Remembered  never  more ! 
And  now,  downcast,  the  silent  Past, 

In  darkness,  hides  her  store  ; 

Remembered  never  more ! 


OUR  PILGRIM  SIRES. 

WITH  all  their  virtues  plain  and  stern, 
Tiie  good  old  times  have  sped ; 

And  now  the  wisdom  which  we  learn, 
Turns  giddy  every  head  ; 

And  yet  'tis  wrong,  I  ween,  to  spurn 
Our  old  ancestral  dead ! 

Our  Pilgrim  sires  were  taught  of  God, 
And  solemn  psalms  they  sung ; 

They  trained  their  children  with  the  rod, 
And  witch  and  wizard  hung! 

Yet,  if  they  erred — 'tis  nothing  odd — 
All  err — both  old  and  young ! 

They  earned  by  toil  whate'er  they  had, 
Since  Heaven  ordained  it  so ; 

Nor  with  the  fashions  went  they  mad, 
Nor  cramped  they  waist  or  toe  ; 

Nor  like  the  lily,  pale  and  sad, 
Looked  every  belle  and  beau ! 

The  girls  were  taught  to  spin  and  weave, 

The  boys  to  hold  the  plow  ; 
'Twas  then  thought  wise — and  I  believe 

As  wise  it  might  be  now, 
If  people  would  their  scheming  leave, 

And  live  by  sweat  of  brow. 


The  good  old  times  were  good  enough, 
Though  times  more  polished  dawn ; 

Men  then  were  made  of  sterner  stuff 
Than  those  that  now  are  born ; 

Though  plain   they  were   and   somewhat 

rough, 
Yet  why  their  virtues  scorn  ? 


THE  MORAL  HERO. 

WITH  heart  that  trusteth  still, 

Set  high  your  mark  ; 
And  though  with  human  ill, 

The  warfare  may  be  dark, 
Resolve  to  conquer — and  you  will ! 

Resolve,  then  onward  press, 

Fearless  and  true  ; 
Believe  it — Heaven  will  bless 

The  brave — and  still  renew 
Your  faith  and  hope,  e'en  in  distress ! 

Press  on,  nor  stay  to  ask 

For  friendship's  aid ; 
Deign  not  to  wear  the  mask, 

Nor  wield  a  coward's  blade, 
But  still  persist,  though  hard  the  task. 

Rest  not — inglorious  rest 

Unnerves  the  man ; 
Struggle — 'tis  God's  behest! 

Fill  up  life's  little  span 
With  God-like  deeds — it  is  the  test — 

Test  of  the  high-born  soul, 

And  lofty  aim  ; 
The  test  in  History's  scroll 

Of  every  honored  name! 
None  but  the  brave  shall  win  the  goal. 

Go  act  the  hero's  part, 
And,  in  the  strife, 


1840-50.] 


HARVEY    RICE. 


269 


Strike  with  the,  hero's  heart, 

For  liberty  and  life !  — 
Ay,  strike  for  truth ;  preserve  her  chart ; 

Her  chart,  unstained,  preserve  ; 

'Twill  guide  you  right ; 
Press  on,  and  never  swerve, 

But  keep  your  armor  bright, 
And  struggle  still,  with  firmer  nerve. 

Error  must  fall  at  last, 

It  is  ordained; — 
Old  creeds  are  crumbling  fast, 

But  ere  the  victory's  gained, 
Heroes  must  strike — the  die  is  cast ! 

What  though  the  tempest  rage, 

Buffet  the  sea ! 
Where  duty  calls,  engage  ; 

And  ever  strive  to  be 
The  moral  Hero  of  the  Age  ! 


HEREAFTER. 

ALAS  !  how  fearful — silent — vast, 
The  dim  and  shadowy  realm, 

Where  undisputed  reigns  the  Past, 
And  voiceless  waves  o'erwhelm, 

In  dark  oblivion's  darker  tide, 

All  that  we  are,  with  all  our  pride, 
Lost  in  the  dread  Hereafter  ! 

And  will  there  be  no  whisper  heard, 
No  voices,  kind  and  sweet ; 

No  tender  heart-string,  touched  or  stirred ; 
No  love  that  is  complete, 

To  soothe  the  grief  that  cannot  speak ; 

No  faithful  friend,  tear-eyed  and  meek ; 
None  in  the  dread  Hereafter? 

And  will  there  be  no  more  of  earth, 
No  more  of  sky  and  stars  ; 


No  hills  or  vales,  or  vernal  birth 

Of  flowers,  or  radiant  bars 
Of  light  to  break  upon  the  stream, 
That  bears  us  onward,  like  a  dream, 
On,  in  the  dread  Hereafter  ? 

Believe — there  is  no  death  for  him, 
Who  lives  on  earth  aright ; 

He  sees  no  shadows,  dark  or  grim ; 
For  him  there  is  no  night — 

No  last  dull  sleep — no  fearful  knell — 

No  terrors — when  he  goes  to  dwell, 
There,  in  the  dread  Hereafter ! 

For  life  and  death  are  but  the  same — 
Phantoms  beneath  the  skies ; 

And  yet  the  stars  with  radiant  flame 
Shall  crown  the  good  and  wise ; 

And  all  that  live,  though  wrapt  in  fire, 

Survive  the  test,  and  bless  their  Sire, 
Bless'd  in  the  dread  Hereafter ! 


EXTRACT  FROM  "MT.  VERNON." 

How  vain  the  lofty  tower, 
Though  reared  to  heaven  by  giant  hand, 
To  speak  his  praise,  whose  matchless  power 

Redeemed  his  native  land, 
And  won  him  fame  that  will  through  time 
expand ! 

On  Vernon's  rugged  side, 
Where  eagles  stoop  to  build  the  nest, 
There  let  the  Hero,  with  his  bride, 

In  hallowed  slumber  rest ; 
His  fittest  monument  the  mountain's  crest. 

O,  may  the  Land  that's  free 
Ne'er  fall  a  prey  to  faction's  blight ; 
But,  with  her  glorious  history, 

Still  blend  a  holier  light, 
To  cheer  her  sons,  and  guide  them  in  the 
right. 


CORNELIUS  A.  LOGAN. 


CORNELIUS  A.  LOGAN  was  born  in  the  year  1800,  in  the  city  of  Baltimore.  He 
was  educated  at  St.  Mary's  College,  and  was  destined  for  the  priesthood,  but  a  restless 
disposition  baffled  the  wishes  of  his  parents,  and,  entering  into  the  employment  of 
shipping  merchants  of  that  city,  he  made  several  voyages  to  Europe  in  the  capacity 
of  supercargo. 

Becoming  tired  of  seafaring,  he  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  For  three  years 
he  assisted  the  celebrated  Paul  Allen  in  the  editorial  department  of  the  Baltimore 
Morning  Chronicle,  in  which  office  he  learned  the  printing  business.  He  was  after 
ward  connected  with  William  Leggett  in  the  project  of  establishing  a  daily  penny 
paper  in  the  city  of  New  York.  The  enterprise  failed,  and  Mr.  Logan  went  to  Philadel 
phia  and  attached  himself  to  the  leading  papers  of  that  place,  as  a  theatrical  critic. 
This  occupation  developed  a  natural  taste  for  the  stage,  and  soon  after,  he  adopted  the 
profession  of  an  actor.  Those  who  recollect  him  only  as  a  comedian  of  the  highest 
popularity,  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he  commenced  his  career  as  a  tragedian. 

In  1840  he  removed  with  his  family  to  Cincinnati,  and  resided  there  until  his  death, 
which  occurred  February  twenty -second,  1853. 

Mr.  Logan  was  a  classical  scholar  of  large  attainments,  and  a  fluent,  versatile  writer. 
He  was  a  bold  defender  of  the  stage  against  the  attacks  which,  he  thought,  were 
unjustly  made  upon  it  from  the  pulpit.  He  wrote  a  reply  to  a  sermon  by  Lyman 
Beecher,  which  was  extensively  copied  throughout  the  country,  as  much  for  the  learn 
ing  it  displayed,  as  for  its  admirable  temper.  He  wrote  many  plays.  Among  them, 
the  "Wag  of  Maine,"  a  comedy  in  three  acts,  first  performed  in  New  York  in  1835, 
and  pronounced  to  be  the  best  American  comedy  that  has  been  written ;  "  The  Wool 
Dealer,"  a  farce  written  for,  and  played  by,  the  late  Dan  Marble ;  "  Yankee  Land,"  a 
comedy  first  produced  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1834;  "Removing  the 
Deposits,"  a  local  farce  brought  out  in  Philadelphia;  "Astarte,"  an  adaptation  of 
Shelley's  "Cenci;"  "An  Hundred  Years  Hence,"  a  burlesque  which  displayed  varied 
knowledge  and  great  humor. 

He  was  the  author  of  several  newspaper  tales  which  have  become  familiar  by 
r<  publication.  Among  them  is  "A  Husband's  Vengeance,"  a  prize  story  for  NeaVs 
Saturday  Gazette.  The  newspapers  of  his  day  published  many  epigrams  and  playful 
r-atiivs  from  his  pen,  but  he  neglected  to  make  any  collection  of  these,  or  of  his  poems. 

"  The  Mississippi "  was  copied,  at  the  time  of  its  first  publication,  by  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  prefaced  by  a  handsome  tribute  to  the  author. 

Two  of  Mr.  Logan's  daughters,  Eliza  and  Cecilia,  adopted  the  profession  in  which 
their  father  became  distinguished.  Eliza  has  been,  since  1849,  one  of  the  most  popu 
lar  actresses  of  the  West.  Mr.  Logan's  son,  Thomas  A.,  is  a  prosperous  attorney 

in  Cincinnati. 

(270) 


1810-50.] 


CORNELIUS    A.    LOGAN. 


271 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.* 

HERE  meet,  but  mingle  not,  the  mighty 

waters. 

The  glorious  Queen  of  Rivers,  in  her  sole 
And  unparticipated  majesty 
Flows  on : — Her  slimy  bed  she  scorns  to 

share 

With  this,  her  wooing  tributary. 
Eternal  Flood!    thou  owest  thy  birth  to 

regions 

Where  the  worn  sun  rises  fatigued  from  o'er 
The  western'st  hill  the  race  of  Europe  till, 
Or  claim.  How  many  nations  in  thy 

course 
Has  thy  broad  flow  divided !     The  fragile 

bark 

On  thy  sustaining  breast  in  silence  glides, 
Or,  ambush    on    thy    banks,   its    warrior 

freight. 

Hast  thou  ne'er  paused  upon  thy  onward 

way, 

As  o'er  thy  moonlit  ripples  softly  swept 
The   plaintive   wail  of   love-lorn    Indian 

maid? 

Didst  thou  ne'er  in  thy  weary  pilgrimage, 
Forget  the  changeless  law  of  thy  progres 
sion, 

And  hold  thy  breath  to  catch  the  far 
And  faintest  echoes  of  the  forest  fight  ? 
And  on  hush'd  midnight  surface  vibrate 
The  tale  drank  in  by  her  who  watched  and 

prayed ; — 
Watched   for  her   husband,    through   the 

thickening  gloom — 
Prayed   that   the   clinging   infant  at   her 

breast 
Might  not  that  night  be  fatherless? 

How  oft 

Upon  thy  sedgy  margin  has  the  yell 
Of  savage  warfare  broke!     In  dark  em 
brace 


*  Written  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ohio  River. 


The  war  deck'd  combatants  in  equal  fight 
Upon  the  cliff,  have  lost  their  giddy  hold, 
And  dashing  downward  with  a  sullen 

plash, 
Found   mutual   death    in    thy    affrighted 

depths ! 

When  forth  the  fiat  went  that  bade  the 

Earth 
Rejoice    in    form    and    light,  thou   didst 

begin 
Thy  everlasting  course.     Scarce  yet  the 

soil 
Had   hardened    since    Jehovah's    breath 

passed  o'er 
Its    quivering   chaos — yet  e'en  then  thou 

sprangest 
Upon  thy  mighty  race ;    Young  Time  and 

Thou, 

Twin  born,  and  forever  co-existent. 
Myriads  of  generations  hath  thy  face 
In  placid  majesty  reflected.     Thou, 
Men    perchance   hast   seen,  whose   forms 

were  not  like 
Those   which   men  now  bear — of  stature 

huge 

And  of  construction  monstrous  ;  fitting  foe 
To  the  Behemoth  and  the  Mastodon, 
To  survey  whose  bones  appalls  our  puny 

nerves. 

Sweep  on  !  sweep  on !  thou  Empress  of 

the  World ! 
Upon    thy    rolling    tide    thou  bear'st  the 

wealth 

Of  youthful  nations — richer  far  than  all 
The    gorgeous    gems    which    sparkle    in 

Potosi. 

Thou  hast  a  gem — a  peerless  gem, 
Whose  ever-radiant   coruscations  flash 
A    thousand    leagues    along    thy    sunny 

banks. 

'Tis  brightest  in  the  heavenly  diadem, 
Blood-stained,  but  dimless:    Men   call   it 

Freedom ! 


FORTUNATUS  COSBY. 


FORTUNATUS  COSBY  was  born  on  Harrod's  Creek,  near  Louisville,  Kentucky,  on 
the  second  day  of  May,  in  the  year  1802.  His  father,  after  whom  he  was  named, 
was  an  influential  lawyer. 

Fortunatus  was  liberally  educated.  He  was  a  student  at  Transylvania  University, 
in  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and  graduated  at  Yale  College.  He  adopted  the  profession 
in  which  his  father  had  become  distinguished,  but  never  devotedly  pursued  it.  He 
has  been  one  of  the  most  admired  contributors  of  the  Louisville  Journal,  and  in  1846 
wrote  a  number  of  charming  poems  for  The  Examiner,  the  emancipation  journal, 
which  was,  in  that  year,  published  by  John  C.  Vaughn,  in  Louisville.  Since  1850 
Mr.  Cosby  has  not  given  to  the  public  any  token  of  familiarity  with  the  haunts  of 
the  muses.  His  poems  are  all  mellifluous,  and  are  not  less  felicitous  in  conception 
than  delightful  in  rhythm. 

Mr.  Cosby  has  been  twice  married — in  1825  at  Louisville,  and  in  1854  at  Wash 
ington  City,  where  he  now  resides,  holding  a  clerkship  in  the  United  States  Treasury 
Department.  His  son  Robert,  who  died  when  he  was  about  twenty-eight  years  of  age, 
gave  promise  of  excellence  as  a  poet.  He  was  lamented  by  a  large  circle  of  friends 
as  a  young  man  of  rare  gifts  and  virtues. 


THE  SOLITARY  FOUNTAIN. 

THERE  is  a  nook  in  a  lonely  glen, 
Hidden  away  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
Where  the  antelope  bounds  with  graceful 

leap, 

And  rock-goats  browse  on  the  dizzy  steep ; — 
And  it  nestles  there 
'Mid  the  mountains  bare, 
That  nook,  like  a  gem,  in  its  rocky  keep. 

In  that  fairy  spot  the  wild  grape-vine 
Weaves  its  lithe  tendrils  with  many  a  twine, 
Mid  the  bending  boughs  of  a  bending  tree, 
And  a  crystal  fountain  gushes  free, 

And  dances  along 

With  a  quiet  song, 
To  mingle  its  rill  with  river  and  sea. 


And  thither,  at  morning's  freshest  prime, 
And  at  dewy  evening's  resting  time — 
At  sultry  noon,  when  the  spirits  sink, 
Around  that  fountain's  moss-cover'd  brink, 

From  the  open  glades 

And  the  forest  shades 
The  beautiful  creatures  came  to  drink. 

The  first  and  the  fairest  flowers  of  spring, 
The  last,  that  in  Autumn  their  perfumes 

bring : — 

Each  odorous  breath  the  breeze  has  stirr'd, 
The  sweetest  song  of  the  sweetest  bird, 
By  the  gentle  nymph, 
Who  watches  the  lymph, 
Are  the  soonest  felt  and  the  soonest  heard. 


The  spirit  of  Peace  is  hovering  near ; 
Neither  bird  nor  beast  have  aught  to  fear ; 


(272) 


1840-50.] 


FORTUNATUS    COSBY. 


273 


Stretch'd  hard  by  in  the  verdurous  shade, 
The  hunter  forgets  his  ruthless  trade, 

The  stag  from  his  lair, 

And  the  timid  hare, 
Gaze  in  his  face  and  are  not  affraid. 

And  there,  as  the  Red  man's  legends  tell, 
A  maiden  dwelt  in  that  lonely  dell ; 
Fair  as  the  face  in  a  poet's  dream, — 
Pure  as  the  purest  mountain  stream, 
When  its  waters  burst 
From  their  caverns  first — 
Or  drops  of  dew  in  the  morning's  gleam. 

Her  step  as  agile,  as  light  and  free, 
As  spotted  fawn's  on  its  native  lea ; 
Her  smile  as  bright  as  the  sunset's  glow, 
Her  voice  as  silvery,  sweet  and  low, 
As  the  fountain's  gush, 
Or  song  of  the  thrush, 
Or  zephyrs  that  curl  the  water's  flow. 

And  innocent  thoughts  in  her  bosom  lay, 
As  sands  of  gold  in  the  spring-brook  play — 
As  blithe  birds  dwell  in  the  greenest  bowers, 
Or,  honey-bees  'mid  the  sweetest  flowers ; 
And  her  dark  eyes  shone 
With  bright  dreams  alone, 
As  the  dial  tells  only  of  radiant  hours. 

And  thither  the  timorous  antelope, 
And  the  rock-goat  on  the  mountain's  slope — 
The  humming-bird  and  the  humble-bee, 
The  birds  that  sing  in  the  leafy  tree — 

The  mavis  and  merle, 

To  that  gentle  girl 
Came  at  her  call,  exulting  and  free. 

She  lov'd  as  the  young  and  guileless  love, 
As  woman  loves  or  the  gentle  dove ; 
And  day  by  day  more  passionate  grew, 
More  trusting  and  tender,  for  well  she  knew 

That  her  image  dwelt 

In  a  heart  that  felt 
A  love  as  warm  and  a  love  as  true. 


And    there,   when  the    setting   sun    had 

spread 

His  gorgeous  hues  on  the  mountain's  head, 
And  shadows  lay  on  the  golden  mist, 
Their  due  feet  came  to  that  fairy  tryst ; 

And  the  stillness  round, 

It  was  so  profound 
That  the  wild  deer  paus'd  to  look  and  list. 

"And  what  to  them  was  the  world  beside?" 
Its  wrath  and  wrong,  by  that  fountain's  tide  ? 
The  stars  look'd  down  from  the  distant  sky, 
And  spirits  smil'd  from  their  place  on  high — 

And  a  blessing  fell 

On  that  glassy  well, 
And  Time,  the  destroyer,  pass'd  it  by. 

That  gentle  girl  to  the  fountain  sped, 
With  shells  and  flowers  to  wreathe  her  head ; 
And  the  maiden  gaz'd  with  maiden  pride, 
Nor  dream'd  her  love  was  at  her  side, 

Till  his  shadow  lay 

In  the  water's  play, 

And   show'd  the   Chief  to    his    conscious 
bride. 

And  there,  at  the  morrow's  dawn,  they  met, 
And  they  came  again  when  the  stars  were 

set; 

And  each  to  the  other  was  all-in-all, 
And   they  linger'd  there  in  love's  sweet 
thrall, 

Till  the  joyous  sun, 

His  journey  begun, 

Wak'd  the  glad  earth  with  his  matin  call. 

And  the  next  day,  and  still  the  next,  they 

came, 

And  the  maiden  wept,  but  not  for  shame — 

And  the  gushing  tears  fell  fast  and  warm, 

For  with  the  next  moon  that  cherish'd  form, 

Too  surely  she  knows, 

On  the  war-path  goes, 

O'er  mountain  and  plain — in  sunshine  and 

storm. 


18 


274 


FORTUNATUS    COSBY. 


[1840-50. 


And  thither,  for  many  a  weary  day, 
The  desolate  maid  was  wont  to  stray, 
To  see,  ere  the  shadows  fade  and  melt, 
If  mirror'd  there  his  image  dwelt — 
But  the  limpid  wave 
No  bright  image  gave, 
But  hers  who  beside  its  margin  knelt. 

Another,  and  yet  another  sun, 
His  weary  course  has  wearily  run — 
And  he  comes  not  with  its  golden  set — 
The  brave  and  the  true,  can  he  forget  ? 

She  sits  there  alone 

On  that  mossy  stone, 
And  looks  and  prays  for  his  coming  yet! 

At  morn,  at  noon,  and  at  eventide, 
She  sits  and  weeps  by  that  fountain's  side 
And  she  thinks  and  dreams  of  him  alone, 
The  loving  and  lov'd  who  was  all  her  own 

But  the  sun  that  told 

Happy  hours  of  old, 
Shall  shine  never  more  as  once  it  shone. 

Ah !  never  again  shall  she  behold, 
And  never  again  shall  she  infold 
That  cherish'd  form — and  never  again 
Shall  his  presence  light  her  darken'd  brain 
And  love  never  more 
Shall  bind  and  restore 
The  broken  links  of  that  broken  chain. 


TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

BIRD  of  the  wild  and  wondrous  song, 

I  hear  thy  rich  and  varied  voice 
Swelling  the  greenwood  depths  among, 

Till  hill  and  vale  the  while  rejoice. 
Spell-bound,  entranced,  in  rapture's  chain, 
I  list  to  that  inspiring  strain ; 
I  thread  the  forest's  tangled  maze 

The  thousand  choristers  to  see, 
Who,  mingled  thus,  their  voices  raise 

In  that  delicious  minstrelsy ; 


search  in  vain  each  pause  between — 
?he  choral  band  is  still  unseen. 

Tis  but  the  music  of  a  dream, 

An  airy  sound  that  mocks  the  ear ; 
3ut  hark  again  !  the  eagle's  scream — 

It  rose  and  fell,  distinct  and  clear ! 
And  list !  in  yonder  hawthorn  bush, 
The  red-bird,  robin,  and  the  thrush ! 
Lost  in  amaze  I  look  around, 

Nor  thrush  nor  eagle  there  behold ! 
Sut  still  that  rich  aerial  sound, 

Like  some  forgotten  song  of  old 
That  o'er  the  heart  has  held  control, 
Falls  sweetly  on  the  ravished  soul. 

And  yet  the  woods  are  vocal  still, 

The  air  is  musical  with  song ; 
O'er  the  near  stream,  above  the  hill, 

The  wildering  notes  are  borne  along ; 
But  whence  that  gush  of  rare  delight? 
And  what  art  thou,  or  bird,  or  sprite? — 
Perched  on  yon  maple's  topmost  bough, 

With  glancing  wings  and  restless  feet, 
Bird  of  untiring  throat,  art  thou 

Sole  songster  in  this  concert  sweet ! 
So  perfect,  full,  and  rich,  each  part, 
It  mocks  the  highest  reach  of  art. 

Once    more,    once    more,    that    thrilling 
strain ! — 

Ill-omened  owl,  be  mute,  be  mute  ! — 
Thy  native  tones  I  hear  again. 

More  sweet  than  harp  or  lover's  lute ; 
Compared  with  thy  impassioned  tale, 
How  cold,  how  tame  the  nightingale. 
Alas !  capricious  in  thy  power, 

Thy  "  wood-note  wild  "  again  is  fled : 
The  mimic  rules  the  changeful  hour, 

And  all  the  soul  of  song  is  dead ! 
But  no — to  every  borrowed  tone 
He  lends  a  sweetness  all  his  own ! 

On  glittering  wing,  erect  and  bright, 
With  arrowy  speed  he  darts  aloft, 

As  though  his  soul  had  ta'en  its  flight, 
In  that  last  strain,  so  sad  and  soft, 


1840-50.] 


FORTUNATUS    COSBY. 


275 


And  he  would  call  it  back  to  life, 
To  mingle  in  the  mimic  strife ! 
And  ever,  to  each  fitful  lay, 

His  frame  in  restless  motion  wheels, 
As  though  he  would  indeed  essay 

To  act  the  ecstacy  he  feels — 
As  though  his  very  feet  kept  time 
To  that  inimitable  chime ! 

And  ever,  as  the  rising  moon 

Climbs  with  full  orb  the  trees  above, 
He  sings  his  most  enchanting  tune, 

While  echo  wakes  through  all  the  grove ; 
His  descant  soothes,  in  care's  despite, 
The  weary  watches  of  the  night ; 
The  sleeper  from  his  couch  starts  up, 

To  listen  to  that  lay  forlorn  ; 
And  he  who  quaffs  the  midnight  cup 

Looks  out  to  see  the  purple  morn ! 
Oh,  ever  in  the  merry  Spring, 
Sweet  mimic,  let  me  hear  thee  sing. 


SONG. 

ALL  around  and  all  above  thee, 

In  the  hush'd  and  charmed  air, 
All  things  woo  thee,  all  things  love  thee, 

Maiden  fair ! 
Gentlest  zephyrs,  perfume  breathing, 

Waft  to  thee  their  tribute  sweet, 
And  for  thee  the  Spring  is  weaving 

Garlands  meet. 
In  their  cavern'd,  cool  recesses, 

Songs  for  thee  the  fountains  frame ; 
Whatsoe'er  the  wave  caresses 
Hymns  thy  name. 

Greener  verdure,  brighter  blossom, 
Wheresoe'er  thy  footsteps  stray, 
O'er  the  earth's  enamored  bosom 
Live  alway. 


Wheresoe'er  thy  presence  lingers, 

Wheresoe'er  its  brightness  beams, 
Fancy  weaves,  with  cunning  fingers, 

Sweetest  dreams. 
And  the  heart  forgets  thee  never, 

Thy  young  beauty's  rare  delight, 
There  it  dwells,  and  dwells  forever, 
Ever  bright. 


FIRESIDE  FANCIES. 

BY  the  dim  and  fitful  fire-light 

Musing  all  alone, 
Memories  of  old  companions 

Dead,  or  strangers  grown  ; — 
Books  that  we  had  read  together, 
Rambles  in  sweet  summer  weather, 
Thoughts  released  from  earthly  tether — 

Fancy  made  my  own. 

In  my  cushioned  arm-chair  sitting 

Far  into  the  night, 
Sleep,  with  leaden  wing  extinguished 

All  the  flickering  light ; 
But,  the  thoughts  that  soothed  me  waking, 
Care,  and  grief,  and  pain  forsaking, 
Still  the  self-same  path  were  taking — 

Pilgrims,  still  in  sight. 

Indistinct  and  shadowy  phantoms 

Of  the  sacred  dead, 
Absent  faces  bending  fondly 

O'er  my  drooping  head, 
In  my  dreams  were  woven  quaintly, 
Dim  at  first,  but  calm  and  saintly, 
As  the  stars  that  glimmer  faintly 

From  their  misty  bed. 

Presently  a  lustrous  brightness 

Eye  could  scarce  behold, 
Gave  to  my  enchanted  vision, 

Looks  no  longer  cold, 


FORTUNATUS    COSBY. 


[1840-50. 


Features  that  no  clouds  encumber, 
Forms  refreshed  by  sweetest  slumber, 
And,  of  all  that  blessed  number, 
Only  one  was  old. 

Graceful  were  they  as  the  willow 

By  the  zephyr  stirred ! 
Bright  as  childhood  when  expecting 

An  approving  word ! 
Fair  as  when  from  earth  they  faded, 
Ere  the  burnished  brow  was  shaded, 
Or,  the  hair  with  silver  braided, 

Or  lament  was  heard. 

Roundabout  in  silence  moving 

Slowly  to  and  fro — 
Life-like  as  I  knew  and  loved  them 

In  their  spring-time  glow  ; — 
Beaming  with  a  loving  luster, 
Close  and  closer  still  they  cluster 
Round  my  chair  that  radiant  muster, 

Just  as  long  ago. 

Once,  the  aged,  breathing  comfort 

O'er  my  fainting  cheek, 
Whispered  words  of  precious  meaning 

Only  she  could  speak, 
Scarce  could  I  my  rapture  smother, 
For  I  knew  it  was  my  mother, 
And  to  me  there  was  no  other 

Saint-like  and  so  meek ! 

Then  the  pent-up  fount  of  feeling 

Stirred  its  inmost  deep — 
Brimming  o'er  its  frozen  surface 

From  its  guarded  keep, 
On  my  heart  its  drops  descending, 
And  for  one  glad  moment  lending 
Dreams  of  Joy's  ecstatic  blending, 

Blessed  my  charmed  sleep. 

Bright  and  brighter  grew  the  vision 

With  each  gathering  tear, 
Till  the  past  was  all  before  me 

In  its  radiance  clear ; 


And  again  we  read  at  even — 
Hoped,  beneath  the  summer  heaven, 
Hopes  that  had  no  bitter  leaven, 
No  disturbing  fear. 

All  so  real  seemed  each  presence, 

That  one  word  I  spoke — 
Only  one  of  old  endearment, 

That  dead  silence  broke. 
But  the  angels  who  were  keeping 
Stillest  watch  while  I  was  sleeping, 
Left  me  o'er  the  embers  weeping — 
Fled  when  I  awoke. 

But,  as  ivy  clings  the  greenest 

On  abandoned  walls ; 
And  as  echo  lingers  sweetest 

In  deserted  halls : — 
Thus,  the  sunlight  that  we  borrow 
From  the  past  to  gild  our  sorrow, 
On  the  dark  and  dreaded  morrow 

Like  a  blessing  falls. 


FIRST  LOVE. 

Tis  twenty  years ! — yes,  twenty  years 

Have  fled  into  the  past ! 
Oh.  twenty  long  and  weary  years, 

Since  I  beheld  thee  last ! 
They  say  that  time  has  brush'd  away 

The  brightness  from  thy  cheek ; 
And,  that  thy  light  and  ringing  laugh 

Is  more  subdued  and  meek ! 

Tis  twenty  years, — yes,  twenty  years ! 

But  thy  beloved  face 
Is  mirrored  in  my  memory  yet, 

In  all  its  girlish  grace ; 
And  thou  art  still  the  same  to  me, 

Thine  eye  as  brightly  blue, — 
Thy  cheek  as  warm,  thy  lip  as  red, 

Thy  heart  as  kind  and  true ! 


JAMES   B.  WALKER. 


JAMES  BARK  WALKER  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia.  He  was  born  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  day  of  July,  1805.  His  father  was  a  machinist.  James  B.  came  to  the  West 
when  a  young  man.  He  began  life  as  a  printer ;  read  law,  then  spent  four  years  in 
study  at  Western  Reserve  College,  Hudson,  Ohio,  and  after  several  years  of  success 
ful  mercantile  business,  entered  the  Christian  ministry,  in  which  he  now  labors.  He 
was  pastor  of  the  Congregational  Church  in  Mansfield,  Richland  county,  Ohio,  for 
many  years,  and  lately  preached  to  a  congregation  in  Sandusky  City.  He  is  now  a 
lecturer  in  the  Theological  Seminaries  of  Oberlin,  Ohio,  and  Chicago,  Illinois. 

Mr.  Walker  has  published  but  little  poetry,  but  a  volume  of  poems  from  his  pen 
is  to  be  issued  in  England  the  present  year.  He  is  better  known  as  the  author  of 
philosophical  works,  treating  of  nature  and  revealed  religion,  than  as  a  poet.  "  The 
Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation,"  a  little  book  originally  published  in  Cincinnati,* 
but  which  has  passed  through  many  editions  in  England,  and  has  been  translated  into 
nearly  all  the  languages  of  the  continent  of  Europe  in  which  the  Christian  religion 
is  taught,  may  be  recorded  as  one  of  the  most  successful  of  American  publications. 

Another  work  by  Mr.  Walker,  "  God  Revealed  in  Creation  and  in  Christ,"  first 
published  in  London,  in  1857,  and  republished  in  Boston,  has  been  widely  circulated. 
In  addition  to  other  literary  labors,  Mr.  Walker  has  conducted  in  the  West  four  news 
papers — one  political,  one  temperance,  and  two  religious.  The  volume  which  he  is 
now  preparing  for  the  press  will  contain  two  poems  of  considerable  length,  widely 
differing  in  subject  and  treatment — one  "  On  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul," — the  other, 
"Ten  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  a  Lady  of  Fashion." 


THE  INWARD  LIFE. 

THERE  is  a  joy,  all  joys  above 
An  inward  life  of  peace  and  love 

The  contrite  only  feel ; 
It  is  the  power  that  makes  us  whole — 
A  saving  unction  in  the  soul — 

It  is  the  spirit's  seal. 

There  is  a  ray  of  holy  light — 
A  radiance  from  the  ever-bright 


And  ever-perfect  One ; 
It  is  the  day-spring  in  the  heart, 
That  lives  and  glows  in  every  part — 

It  is  the  spirit's  sun. 

There  is  an  energy  supplied 
By  faith  in  Christ  the  crucified, 

Through  all  the  being  rife. 
It  is  the  power  of  saving  grace, 
That  holds  the  soul  in  its  embrace — 

It  is  the  spirit's  life. 


*  Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation— a  Book  for  the  Times  ;  by  an  American  citizen.     Published  for  the  author. 
Cincinnati,  1841.    12mo,  pp.  239.    Dedicated  to  William  Ellery  Channing. 

(  277  ) 


JAMES    B.   WALKER. 


[1840-50. 


APOSTROPHE  TO   EGYPT. 

EGYPT,  thou  wonder  of  the  primal  age, 

In  the  Nilotic  valley  long  ago, 

The   priest   of   Ammon — the    Memphitic 

sage, 
Inscribed  the  preface  to   what  man  may 

know, 

Upon  thy  granite  obelisks — in  tombs 
Where  mummied  relics  of  thy  great  ones 

lie- 
in  the  stupendous  pyramids,  whose  rooms 
Abysmal — cavernous — may  time  defy. 

Whence  were  thy  people,  Egypt  ?  Whence 

the  might 
And  wealth   of  Menes,  the   first  Theban 

king? 

Who  taught  thy  sacerdotal  class  to  write 
In  hieroglyphics?     Did  their  knowledge 

spring 
From  ancient  Meroe  ?    Was  the  light  that 

shone 

Upon  thine  orient  in  the  morn  of  time 
Kindled    by    Hermes? — or    a    radiance 

thrown 
Into  thy  valley  from  some  western  clime  ? 

Who  shall  resolve  the  riddle  ? — who  col 
late 

Thy  fables,  and  translate  them  into  truth  ? 

Who  place  thy  unplaced  kings,  or  give  the 
date 

Of  those  who  reigned  when  Saturn  was  a 
youth? 

That  thou  in  age   wast  hoary,  the   long 

range 

Of  temples — tombs — sarcophagi,  declare, 
And  thy  vast  superstitions,  vile  and  strange, 
Proclaim  idolatry  grown  dotard  there. 

Impressive  lesson  !     Time  develops  mind, 
And  nations  by  the  lapse  of  years  grow 
wise, 


But  God  unknown — the  human  mind  is 

blind, 
And  reason  sinks  by  her  attempts  to  rise. 

God  is   unknown   to   reason.     Ye   might 

gaze 

On  Phre,  the  sun-god,  till  the  eye  would  be 
Confused  and  cloudy : — but  as  through  a 

haze 
Or   darken'd   glass,  his  texture  we   may 

see, 
So,  God   of  hosts,  the  soul  may  gaze  on 

Thee  :— 
Jesus  revealed,  yet  vailed  the  Deity. 


THE  ANGEL  WHISPER. 

SOMETIMES  in  the  pause  of  busy  life, 

When  my  mind  is  very  still, 
There  looks  on  me  in  mem'ry's  glass, 

Without  the  call  of  will, 
A  kind,  young  face  from  the  land  of  youth, 

And  when  she  comes  I  sigh, 
And  my  mind  is  held  as  with  a  spell 

Of  an  unseen  spirit  nigh. 

Long,  long  ago,  in  boyhood  time, 

She  was  my  earliest  love, 
But  ere  the  flush  of  maiden  prime, 

She  joined  the  choir  above : 
Her  presence  gives  a  sign  of  peace; 

All  selfish  thought  is  gone  ; 
I  hear  her  silent  words  awhile, 

And  then  I  am  alone. 

In  the  spirit  land,  hereafter, 

I  shall  meet  an  angel  friend, 
Whose  presence  I  shall  know  by  thoughts, 

That  with  my  spirit  blend ; 
She  will  tell  me  in  life's  pilgrimage 

She  oftentimes  was  nigh, 
And  looked  on  me  from  memory's  glass, 

Till  I  answer'd  with  a  sigh. 


SOPHIA   HELEN   OLIVER. 


SOPHIA  HELEN  OLIVER,  whose  maiden  name  was  Shryock,  was  born  in  the  year 
1811,  in  Lexington,  Kentucky.  She  was  married  in  1837  to  James  H.  Oliver,  and, 
in  the  year  following,  went  to  reside  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  her  husband  en 
gaged  in  the  practice  of  medicine.  During  the  years  1838  and  '39,  Mrs.  Oliver  was 
a  frequent  contributor,  under  the  signature  of  "  Sophia,"  to  the  Louisville  Journal,  and 
also  to  the  Louisville  Literary  Register,  a  paper  edited  by  William  Ross  Wallace. 
In  1842  her  husband  removed  to  Cincinnati,  where  she  has  since  resided.  Some  of 
Mrs.  Oliver's  best  poems  were  written  for  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle,  while  under  the 
editorial  control  of  Edward  D.  Mansfield.  For  the  last  five  years  she  has  contrib 
uted  occasionally  to  the  Masonic  Review,  published  at  Cincinnati. 


SHADOWS. 

THEY  are  gliding,  they  are  gliding, 

O'er  the  meadows  green  and  gay ; 
Like  a  fairy  troop  they're  riding 

Through  the  breezy  woods  away ; 
On  the  mountain-tops  they  linger 

When  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 
And  they  point  with  giant  finger 

To  the  sleeping  vale  below. 

They  are  flitting,  they  are  flitting, 

O'er  the  waving  corn  and  rye, 
And  now  they're  calmly  sitting 

'Neath  the  oak-tree's  branches  high. 
And  where  the  tired  reaper 

Hath  sought  the  sheltering  tree, 
They  dance  above  the  sleeper 

In  light,  fantastic  glee. 

They  are  creeping,  they  are  creeping, 

Over  valley,  hill,  and  stream, 
Like  the  thousand  fancies  sweeping 

Through  a  youthful  poet's  dream. 
Now  they  mount  on  noiseless  pinions 

With  the  eagle  to  the  sky — 
Soar  along  those  broad  dominions 

Where  the  stars  in  beauty  lie. 


They  are  dancing,  they  are  dancing, 

Where  our  country's  banner  bright 
In  the  morning  beam  is  glancing, 

With  its  stars  and  stripes  of  light ; 
And  where  the  glorious  prairies 

Spread  out  like  garden  bowers, 
They  fly  along  like  fairies, 

Or  sleep  beneath  the  flowers. 

They  are  leaping,  they  are  leaping, 

Where  a  cloud  beneath  the  moon 
O'er  the  lake's  soft  breast  is  sleeping, 

Lulled  by  a  pleasant  tune ; 
And  where  the  fire  is  glancing 

At  twilight  through  the  hall, 
Tall  specter  forms  are  dancing 

Upon  the  lofty  wall. 

They  are  lying,  they  are  lying, 

Where  the  solemn  yew-tree  waves, 
And  the  evening  winds  are  sighing 

In  the  lonely  place  of  graves ; 
And  their  noiseless  feet  are  creeping, 

With  slow  and  stealthy  tread, 
Where  the  ancient  church  is  keeping 

Its  watch  above  the  dead. 


Lo,  they  follow  ! — lo,  they  follow ! 
Or  before  him  proudly  stalk 


(  279  ) 


280 


SOPHIA  HELEN  OLIVER. 


[1840-50. 


By  mountain,  stream,  or  hollow, 
Wherever  man  may  walk ! 

And  never  for  another 

Will  the  shadow  leave  his  side — 

More  faithful  than  a  brother, 
Or  all  the  world  beside. 

Ye  remind  me,  ye  remind  me, 

0  Shadows,  pale  and  cold ! 
That  friends  to  earth  did  bind  me, 

Now  sleeping  in  the  mould ; 
The  young,  the  loved,  the  cherished, 

Whose  mission  early  done, 
In  life!s  bright  noontide  perished, 

Like  shadows  in  the  sun. 

The  departed,  the  departed — 

1  greet  them  with  my  tears — 
The  true  and  gentle-hearted, 

The  friends  of  earlier  years. 
Their  wings  like  shadows  o'er  me, 

Methinks,  are  spread  for  aye, 
Around,  behind,  before  me, 

To  guard  the  devious  way. 


MARK  THE  HOURS  THAT  SHINE. 

IN  fair  Italia's  lovely  land, 

Deep  in  a  garden  bower, 
A  dial  marks  with  shadowy  hand 

Each  sun-illumined  hour ; 
And  on  its  fair,  unsullied  face, 

Is  carved  this  flowing  line 
(Some  wandering  bard  has  paused  to  trace) 

"  I  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 

Oh,  ye  who  in  a  friend's  fair  face 

Mark  the  defects  alone, 
Where  many  a  sweet,  redeeming  grace 

Doth  for  each  fault  atone — 
Go,  from  the  speaking  dial  learn 

A  lesson  all  divine  ; 
From  faults  that  wound  your  fancy  turn, 

And  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 


When  bending  o'er  the  glowing  page, 

Traced  by  a  god-like  mind, 
Whose  burning   thoughts  from  age  to 
age 

Shall  light  and  bless  mankind — 
Why  will  ye  seek  'mid  gleaming  gold 

For  dross  in  every  line, 
Dark  spots  upon  the  sun  behold, 

Nor  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 

Oh,  ye  who  bask  in  fortune's  light, 

Whose  cups  are  flowing  o'er, 
Yet  through  the  weary  day  and  night 

Still  pine  and  sigh  for  more — 
Why  will  ye,  when  so  richly  blest, 

Ungratefully  repine  ? 
Why  sigh  for  joys  still  unpossessed, 

Nor  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine  ?  " 

And  ye  who  toil  from  morn  till  night 

To  earn  your  scanty  bread, 
Are  there  no  blessings  rich  and  bright 

Around  your  pathway  spread  ? 
The  conscience  clear,  the  cheerful  heart, 

The  trust  in  love  divine, 
All  bid  desponding  care  depart, 

And  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 

And  ye  who  bend  o'er  friendship's  tomb, 

In  deep  and  voiceless  woe, 
Who  sadly  feel  no  second  bloom 

Your  blighted  hearts  can  know — 
Why  will  ye  mourn  o'er  severed  ties, 

While  friends  around  you  twine  ? 
Go  !  yield  your  lost  one  to  the  skies, 

And  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 

Deep  in  the  garden  of  each  heart 

There  stands  a  dial  fair, 
And  often  is  its  snowy  chart 

Dark  with  the  clouds  of  care. 
Then  go,  and  every  shadow  chase 

That  dims  its  light  divine, 
And  write  upon  its  gleaming  face — 

"  I  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 


MARGARET  L.  BAILEY. 


MARGARET  L.  BAILEY,  a  daughter  of  Thomas  Shands,  was  born  in  Sussex  county, 
Virginia,  on  the  twelfth  day  of  December,  1812.  When  she  was  about  six  years  of  age 
her  father  removed  to  Ohio,  and  settled  in  the  vicinity  of  Cincinnati.  In  1833  Miss 
Shands  married  Gamaliel  Bailey,  then  a  physician  in  Cincinnati,  who,  in  1837,  be 
came  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Philanthropist,  the  well-known  anti-slavery 
journal,  which  was  merged  into  The  Cincinnati  Morning  Herald,  in  the  year  1843. 

In  1844,  Mrs.  Bailey  undertook  the  editorial  management  of  The  Youth's  Monthly 
Visitor,  a  handsome  quarto  paper  for  little  folks,  which  rapidly  grew  into  favor  and 
attained  a  large  circulation.  When,  in  1847,  Mr.  Bailey  removed  from  Cincinnati  to 
Washington  City,  for  the  purpose  of  editing  The  National  Era,  Mrs.  Bailey  trans 
ferred  the  publication  of  the  Visitor  to  that  city,  and  continued  it  until  1852.  She 
made  it  a  welcome  Visitor  to  thousands  of  households,  the  good  wishes  of  which 
might  well  be  coveted  by  any  editor  or  author. 

After  Mr.  Bailey's  decease,  in  1859,  Mrs.  Bailey  was  the  publisher  of  the  National 
Era  until  the  time  of  its  suspension,  February,  1860.  She  now  resides  in  Washing 
ton  City.  Between  the  care  of  an  interesting  family,  and  attentions  to  a  circle  of 
literary  friends,  by  whom  she  is  regarded  with  loving  honor,  her  time  has  been  so 
entirely  occupied  that  she  has  not  exercised  her  poetic  faculties,  unless  in  secret,  for 
eight  or  ten  years.  Indeed,  she  does  not  take  pride  in  the  poems  of  her  early  years, 
and  would  probably  question  the  poetic  taste  of  any  one  who  might  indorse  the 
saying  of  Rufus  W.  Griswold,  that  "  they  are  informed  with  fancy,  and  a  just  under 
standing." 


DUTY  AND  REWARD. 

LABOR — wait!  thy  Master  perished 

Ere  his  task  was  done ; 
Count  not  lost  thy  fleeting  moments, 

Life  hath  but  begun. 

Labor !  and  the  seed  thou  sowest 

Water  with  thy  tears  ; 
God  is  faithful — he  will  give  thee 

Answer  to  thy  prayers. 

Wait  in  hope !  though  yet  no  verdure 
Glad  the  longing  eyes, 


Thou  shalt  see  the  ripened  harvest 
Garnered  in  the  skies. 

Labor  —  wait!   though  midnight   shad 
ows 

Gather  round  thee  here, 
And  the  storms  above  thee  lowering 

Fill  thy  heart  with  fear — 

Wait  in  hope  ;  the  morning  dawneth 

When  the  night  is  gone, 
And  a  peaceful  rest  awaits  thee 

When  thy  work  is  done. 


(281) 


282 


MARGARET    L.    BAILEY. 


[1840-50. 


THE  PAUPER  CHILD'S  BURIAL. 

STRETCHED  on  a  rude   plank   the   dead 

pauper  lay ; 
No  weeping  friends  gathered  to  bear  him 

away ; 
His  white,  slender  fingers  were  clasped  on 

his  breast, 
The  pauper  child  meekly  lay  taking  his 

rest. 

The  hair  on  his  forehead  was  carelessly 

parted ; 

No  one  cared  for  him,  the  desolate-hearted  ; 
In  life  none  had  loved  him — his  pathway, 

all  sear, 
Had  not  one  sweet  blossom  its  sadness  to 

cheer. 

No  fond,  gentle  mother  had  ever  caressed 

him, 
In  tones  of  affection  and  tenderness  blessed 

him; 
For  ere  his  eye  greeted  the  light  of  the 

day, 
His  mother  had  passed  in  her  anguish 

away. 

Poor  little  one !  often  thy  meek  eyes  have 
sought 

The  smile  of  affection,  of  kindness  un- 
bought, 

And  wistfully  gazing,  in  wondering  sur 
prise, 

That  no  one  beheld  thee  with  pitying  eyes. 

And  when  in  strange  gladness  thy  young 

voice  was  heard, 
As  in  winter's  stern  sadness  the  song  of  a 

bird, 
Harsh  voices  rebuked  thee,  and,  cowering 

in  fear, 
Thy  glad  song  was  hushed  in  a  sob  and  a 

tear. 


And  when  the  last  pang  rent  thy  heart 
strings  in  twain, 

And  burst  from  thy  bosom  the  last  sign  of 
pain, 

No  gentle  one  soothed  thee,  in  love's  melt 
ing  tone, 

With  fond  arm  around  thee  in  tenderness 
thrown. 

Stern  voices  and  cold  mingled  strange  in 

thine  ear, 
With  the  songs  of  the  angels  the  dying 

may  hear ; 

And  thrillingly  tender,  amid  death's  alarms, 
Was  thy  mother's  voice  welcoming  thee  to 

her  arms. 

Thy  fragile  form,  wrapped  in  its  coarse 

shroud,  reposes 
In  slumbers  as  sweet  as  if  pillowed  on 

roses ; 
And  while  on  thy  coffin  the  rude  clods  are 

press'd, 
The  good  Shepherd  folds  the  shorn  lamb 

to  his  breast. 


MEMORIES. 

OH  !  pleasant  are  the  memories 
Of  childhood's  forest  home, 

And  oft,  amid  the  toils  of  life, 
Like  blessed  dreams  they  come : 

Of  sunset  hours  when  I  lay  entranced, 
'Mid  shadows  cool  and  green, 

Watching  the  winged  insects  gleam, 
In  summer's  golden  sheen. 

Their  drowsy  hum  was  a  lullaby 
To  nature's  quiet  sleeping, 

While  o'er  the  meadow's  dewy  breast 
The  evening  winds  were  creeping. 


1840-50.] 


MARGARET    L.    BAILEY. 


The  plowman's  whistle  heard  afar, 
To  his  humble  home  returning ; 

And  faintly  in  the  gathering  shade 
The  fire-fly's  lamp  was  burning. 

Up  in  the  old  oak's  pleasant  shade, 
Where  mossy  branches  swing, 

With  gentle  twitterings  soft  and  low, 
Nestling  with  fluttering  wing — 

Were  summer  birds,  their  tender  notes 
Like  love's  own  fond  caressing, 

When  a  mother  folds  her  little  flock, 
With  a  whispered  prayer  and  blessing. 

The  cricket  chirps  from  the  hollow  tree, 

To  the  music  of  the  rill, 
And  plaintively  echoes  through  the  wood 

The  song  of  the  whippowill. 

Tinged  with  the  last  faint  light  of  day, 

A  white  cloud  in  the  west 
Floats  in  the  azure  sea  above, 

Like  a  ship  on  ocean's  breast. 

The  evening  star  as  a  beacon  shines, 

On  the  far  horizon's  verge ; 
And  the  wind  moans  through  the  distant 
pines, 

Like  the  troubled  ocean's  surge. 

From  lowly  vales  the  rising  mist 
Curls  up  the  hill-side  green, 

And  its  summit,  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Like  a  fairy  isle  is  seen. 

Away  in  the  depths  of  ether  shine 
The  stars  serenely  bright — 

Gems  in  the  glorious  diadem, 
Circling  the  brow  of  night. 

Our  Father !  if  thy  meaner  works 

Thus  beautiful  appear — 
If  such  revealings  of  thy  love 

Enkindle  rapture  here — 


If  to  our  mortal  sense  thou  dost 

Thy  treasures  thus  unfold ; 
When  death  shall  rend  this  earthly  vail, 

How  shall  our  eyes  behold 

Thy  glory,  when  the  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  starry  zone, 
And  in  Thy  presence  folds  her  wing, 

And  bows  before  Thy  throne ! 


ENDURANCE. 

WHEN,  upon  wings  of  rainbow  hues, 

Hope  flits  across  thy  pathway  here, 
And  gently  as  the  morning  breeze, 

Her  waving  pinion  dries  thy  tear, 
Oli,  yield  not  all  thy  soul  to  joy, 

Let  not  her  blandishments  allure  : 
Life's  greenest  spot  hath  withered  flowers — 

Whate'er  thy  lot,  thou  must  endure. 

If,  on  the  mountain's  topmost  cliff, 

The  flag  of  victory  seems  unfurled, 
And  Faith,  exulting,  sees  afar 

Earth's  idol,  Error,  downward  hurled, 
Deem  not  the  triumph  thou  shalt  share — 

God  keeps  his  chosen  vessels  pure ; 
The  final  reckoning  is  on  high ; 

On  earth  thy  meed  is,  to  endure. 

With  chastened  heart,  in  humble  faith, 

Thy  labor  earnestly  pursue, 
As  one  who  fears  to  such  frail  deeds 

No  recompense  is  due. 
Wax  not  faint-hearted ;  while  thou  toil'st, 

Thy  bread  and  water  shall  be  sure ; 
Leaving  all  else  to  God,  be  thou 

Patient  in  all  things  to  endure. 


WILLIAM   DANA  EMERSON. 


WILLIAM  DANA  EMERSON  is  one  of  the  Western  poets  who  have  written  chiefly 
and  happily  on  themes  suggested  by  local  scenery  or  local  history.  He  was  born  in  the 
pioneer  town,  Marietta,  Ohio,  on  the  ninth  day  of  July,  1813.  His  father  was  a  law 
yer  and  an  editor.  William  was  educated  at  Ohio  University,  where  he  graduated 
with  distinction  in  1836.  In  one  of  his  poems,  written  in  1838,  grateful  memories  of 
Athens  and  pleasant  recollections  of  college  life,  are  recorded.  We  quote  two  stanzas : 

Sweet  Athens !  the  home  of  learning  and  beauty, 

How  I  long  for  thy  hills  and  thy  rich  balmy  air  ; 
For  thy  wide-spreading  greens,  smiling  sweetly  on  duty, 

And  the  valley  beneath,  and  the  stream  wending  there  ! 
On  the  North  the  high  rock,  on  the  South  the  lone  ferry  ; 

The  ville  on  the  East,  and  the  mill  on  the  West, 
The  lawn  where  the  gravest  at  play-hours  were  merry, 

And  the  walks  by  the  footstep  of  beauty  made  bless'd  : 

The  old  college  building — where  Enfield  and  Stewart 

Oft  found  me  ensconced  in  the  cupola  cool ; 
While  I  glanced  now  and  then,  mid  the  study  of  true  art, 

At  the  names  graven  there  by  the  pocket  edge-tool  ; 
Oh,  time  has  diminished  the  strength  of  my  spirit, 

The  visions  of  youth  are  my  glories  no  more  ; 
But  still  one  estate  from  thee  I  inherit, 

The  old  right  of  way  to  the  stars  and  their  lore. 

After  leaving  college  Mr.  Emerson  taught  school  in  Kentucky  and  in  Illinois. 
School-keeping  in  Illinois  in  1839  was  well  calculated  to  make  a  young  man  thor 
oughly  acquainted  with  the  necessary  peculiarities  of  pioneer  life — peculiarities  which 
in  several  of  his  poems  Mr.  Emerson  graphically  describes. 

Returning  to  Ohio,  Mr.  Emerson  studied  law,  and  has,  for  ten  or  fifteen  years,  kept 
an  office  in  Cincinnati.  But  he  is  not  much  known  at  the  bar.  His  disposition  is  re 
tiring.  He  shuns  society,  and  avoids  the  haunts  where  men  "most  do  congregate," — 
except  when  he  has  occasion  to  visit  a  public  library,  and  then,  though  the  librarian 
may  learn  his  name,  he  will  find  it  difficult  to  learn  aught  else  respecting  him. 

We  first  became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Emerson  as  a  poet,  through  the  Herald  of 
Truth,  published  by  Lewis  A.  Hine,  in  Cincinnati,  in  1847  and  1848.  Since  that 
time  he  has  not  often  contributed  to  magazines  or  newspapers  ;  but  in  1850  a  volume, 
composed  of  his  poems,  was  printed  by  his  brother,  George  D.  Emerson,  at  Spring 
field,  Ohio,  for  private  circulation.  It  was  entitled  "Occasional  Thoughts  in  Verse," 
and  is  a  duodecimo  of  one  hundred  and  two  pages — containing  thirty-nine  poems. 
The  poems  selected  for  this  work  are  from  that  volume,  excepting  "  The  Dying  Saint" 
and  "  Who  are  the  Free  ?  "  which  are  here  first  published. 

(284) 


1840-50.] 


WILLIAM    DANA   EMERSON. 


285 


TO  THE  OHIO  RIVER. 

FLOW  on,  majestic  River ! 

A  mightier  bids  thee  come, 
And  join  him  on  his  radiant  way, 

To  seek  an  ocean  home  ; 
Flow  on  amid  the  vale  and  hill, 
Arid  the  wide  West  with  beauty  fill. 

I  have  seen  thee  in  the  sunlight, 

With  the  summer  breeze  at  play, 
When  a  million  sparkling  jewels  shone 

Upon  thy  rippled  way ; 
How  fine  a  picture  of  the  strife 
Between  the  smiles  and  tears  of  life ! 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  storm  cloud 

Was  mirrored  in  thy  face, 
And  the  tempest  started  thy  white  waves 

On  a  merry,  merry  race  ; 
And  I've  thought  how  little  sorrow's  wind 
Can  stir  the  deeply  flowing  mind. 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  morning 

Hath  tinged  with  lovely  bloom 
Thy  features,  waking  tranquilly 
From  night's  romantic  gloom  ; 
If  every  life  had  such  a  morn, 
It  were  a  blessing  to  be  born ! 

And  when  the  evening  heavens 
Were  on  thy  canvas  spread, 
And  wrapt  in  golden  splendor,  Day 

Lay  beautiful  and  dead ; 
Thus  sweet  were  man's  expiring  breath, 
Oh,  who  would  fear  the  embrace  of  death ! 

And  when  old  Winter  paved  thee 

For  the  fiery  foot  of  youth ; 
And  thy  soft  waters  underneath 
Were  gliding,  clear  as  truth ; 
So  oft  an  honest  heart  we  trace, 
Beneath  a  sorrow-frozen  face. 

And  when  thou  wert  a  chaos 
Of  crystals  thronging  on, 


Till  melted  by  the  breath  of  Spring, 

Thou  bidst  the  steamers  run ; 
Then  thousands  of  the  fair  and  free 
Were  swiftly  borne  along  on  thee. 

But  now  the  Sun  of  summer 

Hath  left  the  sand-bars  bright, 
And  the  steamer's  thunder,  and  his  fires 

No  more  disturb  the  night ; 
Thou  seemest  like  those  fairy  streams 
We  sometimes  meet  with  in  our  dreams. 

How  Spring  has  decked  the  forest ! 

That  forest  kneels  to  thee ; 
And  the  long  canoe  and  the  croaking 

skiff, 

Are  stemming  thy  current  free  ; 
Thy  placid  marge  is  fringed  with  green, 
Save  where  the  villas  intervene. 

Again  the  rush  of  waters 

Unfurls  the  flag  of  steam, 
And  the  river  palace  in  its  pomp, 

Divides  the  trembling  stream  ; 
Thy  angry  surges  lash  the  shore, 
Then  sleep  as  sweetly  as  before. 

Then  Autumn  pours  her  plenty, 

And  makes  thee  all  alive, 
With  floating  barks  that  show  how  well 

Thy  cultured  valleys  thrive ; 
The  undressing  fields  yield  up  their  grain, 
To  dress  in  richer  robes  again. 

Too  soon  thy  brimming  channel 

Has  widened  to  the  hill, 
As  if  the  lap  of  wealthy  plain 
With  deeper  wealth  to  fill ; 
Oh  !  take  not  more  than  thou  dost  give, 
But  let  the  toil-worn  cotter  live. 

Oh !  could  I  see  thee  slumber, 
As  thou  wast  wont  of  yore, 
When  the  Indian  in  his  birchen  bark, 

Sped  lightly  from  the  shore  ; 
Then  fiery  eyes  gleamed  through  the  wood, 
And  thou  wast  often  tinged  with  blood. 


286 


WILLIAM    DANA   EMERSON. 


[1840-50. 


The  tomahawk  and  arrow, 

The  wigwam  and  the  deer, 
Made  up  the  red  man's  little  world, 

Unknown  to  smile  or  tear  ; 
The  spire,  the  turret  and  the  tree, 
Then  mingled  not  their  shades  on  thee. 

Now  an  hundred  youthful  cities 
Are  gladdened  by  thy  smile, 
And  thy  breezes  sweetened  through  the 

fields, 

The  husbandman  beguile ; 
Those  fields  were  planted  by  the  brave, — 
Oh  !  let  not  fraud  come  near  their  grave. 

Roll  on,  my  own  bright  River, 

In  loveliness  sublime ; 
Through  every  season,  every  age, 

The  favorite  of  Time  ! 
Would  that  my  soul  could  with  thee  roam, 
Through  the  long  centuries  to  come ! 

I  have  gazed  upon  thy  beauty, 

Till  my  heart  is  wed  to  thee  ; 
Teach  it  to  flow  o'er  life's  long  plain, 

In  tranquil  majesty  ; 
Its  channel  growing  deep  and  wide — 
May  Heaven's  own  sea  receive  its  tide ! 


THE  HILLS. 

SOME  pine  for  the  verdured  plain, 
Some  long  for  the  boundless  sea ; 

And  some  for  the  mountain  above  the  rain, 
But  the  hills,  the  hills  for  me ! 

How  bright  is  the  swelling  sail, 

As  it  mingles  with  the  sky ! 
How  rich  the  snow  cap,  resting  pale 

On  the  peak  where  the  breezes  die ! 

Here  from  this  blooming  hill, 
The  wave  and  the  mount  I  see ; 


The  plain  and  the  river  that  winds  at  its 

will— 
The  hills!  the  hills!  forme. 

The  hills  fear  not  the  storm ; 

Disease  delights  in  the  vale  ; 
Here  the  head  is  cool,  and  the  heart  is 
warm — 

Hail  to  the  green  hills,  hail ! 


WHO  ARE  THE  FREE? 

As  once  I  rode  through  the  deep  green 

wood, 

I  heard  a  voice  that  stirred  my  blood, 
With  its  clarion  tones  that  were  not  rude, 

And  it  asked,  "  Who  are  the  free  ?  " 
There  was  clapping  of  wings  as  the  music 

rung, 

And  the  giant  trees  took  up  the  song, 
That  shook  the  skies  as  it  rolled  along, 

And  a  wild  bird  turned  to  me: 
"  We  tread  the  forest,  or  swim  the  air, 
No  despot  ruins  our  pastures  fair, 

We  are  the  free." 
And  the  wild  woods  echoed  the  thrilling  air, 

"  We  are  the  free." 

As  once  I  rode  through  the  prairie  vast, 
On  the  ocean  land  my  eyes  were  cast, 
To  find  where  the  wall  of  the  forest  passed, 

But  no  forest  wall  could  see ; 
A  calm,  deep  voice  sprang  out  of  the  earth, 
That  seemed,  by  its  tone,  of  heavenly  birth, 
And  its  music  filled  the  horizon's  girth, 

And  it  asked,  Who  are  the  free  ? 
The  wild  flowers  looked  with  sparkling  eye ; 
They  seemed  the  stars  of  a  brighter  sky, 

And  they  answered,  "We  are  the  free." 
And  the  bright  clouds  echoed  from  on  high, 
"  We  are  the  free." 


1840-50.] 


WILLIAM    DANA   EMERSON. 


287 


TO  A  LOCUST-TREE. 

I  LOVE  thee,  locust-tree, 
Where'er  or  when  I  see, 
Not  for  thy  form  in  which  I  trace 
The  gently  curving  lines  of  grace  ; 
But  for  those  forms  of  glee 
Thou  bring'st  to  memory, 
My  earliest  playmates  'neath  the  merry 
locust-tree. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree, 
Not  for  the  breezes  free, 
That    play    with     thy    velvet-fingered 

leaves ; 

Nor  the  fragrance  thy  rich  blossom  gives 
To  the  ever-busy  air, 
But  for  those  faces  fair — 
Bathed  in  the  locust's  cooling  shade — again 
I  see  them  there. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree, 
For  the  song  that  rung  from  thee, 
Like  an  angel  choir,  when  the  morning 

beam 

Awakened  me  from  a  glorious  dream. 
The  song  it  came  unsought 
Through  the  window  of  my  cot, 
And  roused  a  thrill  of  gratitude  for  my 
happy,  humble  lot. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree, 
For  my  mother  seems  to  be 
Now  at  my  side,  as  wont  of  yore, 
When  she  taught  me   nature's  noblest 

lore: 

I  see  her  now  as  oft, 
With  hand  and  voice  so  soft, 
She  pointed  through  the  boughs  of  green 
and  bade  me  look  aloft ! 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree  ; 

My  father,  where  is  he  ? 
When  the  thunder  roared,  and  the  light 

ning  came, 
And  wound  the  locust  with  wire  of  flame 


How  sudden  was  my  cry ! 
He  searched  my  frighted  eye, 
Son,  fear  the  voice  of  Him  who  thunders 


from  on  high." 


I  love  thee,  locust-tree — 
'Twas  a  mournful  day  to  me, 
When  'neath  the  shade  in  front  of  our 

cot, 

My  sister's  coffin  was  slowly  brought ; 
And  a  dying  leaf  did  fall 
From  the  locust  on  the  pall, 
And  I  wept  as  we  bore  her  clay — not  her — 
to  the  narrow  funeral  hall. 

I  love  thee,  locust-tree, 
Thou  seem'st  a  family, 
That  I  may  never  see  again, 
Till  the  car  of  Death  bear  us  o'er  the 

plain  ; 

But  if  a  landscape  sweet 
Our  meeting  eyes  shall  greet, 
In  another,  happier  world,  'neath  a  locust 
may  we  meet ! 


SUNSHINE. 

WHEN  the  sky  is  mild  and  blue, 

And  the  light  drops  down  like  dew, 

I  will  sit  me  'neath  the  shade, 

And  look  out  upon  the  glade. 

How  blessed  the  shine, 

To  the  sheep  and  the  kine ; 

To  the  dropsical  plant, 

To  the  architect  ant ; 

To  the  farmer  in  the  weeds, 

To  the  gardener  with  his  seeds, 

To  the  starving  washerwoman, 

To  the  harvest-gathering  yeoman  ; 

To  the  sailor  on  the  sea, 

To  the  dreamer  like  of  me ; 

To  the  buoyant-souled  equestrian, 

To  the  landless  gay  pedestrian, 


288 


WILLIAM    DANA    EMERSON. 


[1840-50, 


Who  looks  on  all, 
With  the  eye  of  one, 

Who  can  dare  to  call 
The  world  his  own  ; 
For  all  mankind  are  brothers, 
And  what  is  one  man's  is  another's, 
The  vast  estate  of  one  Kind  Sire ; 
The  Sun  is  but  a  family  fire ! 


WHO  IS  RICH? 

'Tis  he  through  whose  deep  channeled  soul 
The  steady  stream  of  Time  shall  roll, 
And  leave  its  gold  and  gems  behind, 
To  fill  the  coffers  of  the  mind ; 
Who  has  a  home  in  every  clime, 
A  heavenly  Friend  in  every  time ; 
Who  calls  the  blooming  Earth  his  mother, 
And  every  son  of  Earth  his  brother : 
Heaven  keeps  for  him  a  golden  niche — 
He  has  the  world,  and  he  is  rich. 


THE  WEST. 

THE  West !  the  West !  the  sunset  clime, 
The  last,  the  loveliest  path  of  Time  ; 
Where  Glory  spreads  his  loftiest  flight, 
Ere  Fate  shall  bid  the  world  good  night, 
And  Spirit  rises  high  and  higher, 
Above  the  old  earth's  funeral  pyre ! 

The  West !  the  West !  the  favored  East 
Has  spread  for  thee  her  treasured  feast ; 
Her  commerce  brings  that  science  here, 
Which  cost  a  dozen  centuries  dear ; 
And  Liberty,  that  fled  her  shore, 
Rises  on  thee  to  set  no  more  ! 

The  West!  the  West!  where  is  the  West? 
Twas  here — 'tis  on  the  prairie's  breast ; 


It  follows  the  declining  Sun 
Along  the  banks  of  Oregon ; 
It  will  be  where  he  lays  his  pillow 
Upon  the  wide  Pacific's  billow. 

The  West!  the  West!  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Fast  as  the  Sun  the  shadows  flee ; 
Religion,  Learning,  Freedom  high, 
Their  mantles  drop  while  passing  by ; 
On  China's  towers  their  flag  is  gleaming, 
And   wakes    whole    empires    from    their 
dreaming. 

The  West !  the  West !  still  onward  west ; 
And  now  the  Earth  indeed  is  bless'd ; 
Lo !  here  the  spot  where  Eden  stood, 
And  there  where  Jesus  shed  his  blood! 
The  morning  star  above  suspended ! 
The  East  and  West  together  blended  ! 


THE  DYING  SAINT. 

LET  me  go!  my  Saviour  calls  me, 
Lo  !  I  see  his  smiling  eye  ; 

If  'tis  death  that  now  befalls  me, 
Tis  a  blessed  thing  to  die. 

Glories  on  my  vision  flow ; 

Oh !  to  reach  them  let  me  go ! 

Now  I  see  my  guardian  angel 

Waiting,  watching  round  my  bed ; 

See  !  he  bears  a  crown  of  glory, 
Soon  to  place  it  on  my  head ; 

There  the  Lamb  of  God  I  meet — 

I  will  cast  it  at  his  feet. 

Hark,  I  hear  those  angel  voices ! 

Hark  !  they  bid  me  quickly  come, 
All  is  ready,  all  is  waiting ; 

List !  I  hear  them  say,  come  home  ! 
Brother,  sister,  you  will  come ; 
Weep  not,  love,  they'll  bring  you  home. 


EDWIN   R.  CAMPBELL. 


EDWIN  R.  CAMPBELL,  a  brother  of  Lewis  D.  Campbell,  well  known  as  a  member 
of  Congress,  and  a  leading  politician  in  southern  Ohio,  is,  we  believe,  a  native  of  But 
ler  county,  Ohio.  He  learned  the  printing  business  in  Cincinnati,  and  in  youth  was  a 
frequent  writer  for  the  newspapers  of  that  city. 

In  1841  Mr.  Campbell  was  the  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Times.  In  1848 
and  1849 'he  conducted  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Dispatch,  and  was  afterward  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  Ohio  Statesman.  He  is  now  in  California.  His  poems  were  written 
chiefly  for  the  Hesperian,  and  for  the  Knickerbocker,  of  New  York  City. 


"LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT." 

DARKNESS  was  on  the  mighty  deep ; 

No  light  was  kindled  there ; 
As  yet  a  drear,  unbroken  sleep, 

Lay  on  the  sky  and  air ; 
Not  yet  the  sun's  all-quickening  ray 
Had  given  to  earth  the  primal  day. 

No  morning  light  had  ever  shone 

Upon  the  new-formed  world, 
Nor  had  the  evening's  starry  zone 

Its  splendors  yet  unfurl'd, 
To  light  the  dark  and  trackless  waste, 
On  which  His  impress  had  been  placed. 

"  Let  there  be  light !  " — and  as  the  word 
Came  forth  o'er  earth  and  sea, 

A  thousand  angel  harps  were  heard 
To  sound  with  melody. 

And  voices  mingled  with  the  chord — 

Behold  the  light — "Praise  ye  the  Lord!" 

"  Let  there  be  light ! " — the  lightning  wove 

Around  its  dazzling  chain, 
And  from  the  darkness  far  above 

Descended  on  the  plain, 
And  wrote  upon  the  face  of  night, 
In  burning  words,  "  Let  there  be  light ! " 


And  light  was  on  the  ocean  wave, 

And  in  the  dashing  spray  ; 
Far  in  the  deep,  the  glitt'ring  cave 

Received  the  vivid  ray, 
And  many  a  gem  with  luster  bright, 
Flashed  back   the  word — "Let   there  be 
light," 

"  Let  there  be  light ! " — the  rainbow's  hue, 
Where  mingle  gorgeous  dyes, 

Far  in  the  vaulted  arch  of  blue 
Is  painted  on  the  skies  ; 

Its  scroll  unfolds  to  mortal  sight — 

Behold,  oh  man  !  "  Let  there  be  light ! " 

Then  praise  to  Him  whose  power  divine 

Lit  up  the  glittering  skies, 
Who  taught  earth's  glowing  orb  to  shine 

With  light  that  never  dies, 
Who  from  the  deep  raised  earth  in  air 
And  set  His  seal  of  glory  there. 

"  Let  there  be  light!" — while  time  remains, 

By  power  benignest  given, 
O'er  earth's  benighted  hills  and  plains — 

The  glorious  light  of  heaven, 
That  breaks  through  Superstition's  gloom, 
And  sheds  a  halo  round  the  tomb. 


(  289  ) 


19 


REBECCA  S.  NICHOLS. 


WITH  young  women  just  completing  their  teens,  poetry  very  often  becomes  an 
absorbing  passion  and  a  power  of  no  small  account ;  which  passion  gradually  gives 
way  to  the  demands  of  domestic  duties,  and  which  power,  though  it  may  ripen  into  a 
mature  intellectual  force,  becomes  less  and  less  exercised,  as  the  crown  of  motherhood 
opens  a  new  empire  for  the  aflfectional  dominion  of  the  woman-soul.  With  few  excep 
tions,  this  is. the  universal  truth  of  female  authorship,  which  exceptions  are  generally 
in  favor  of  those  women  who  marry  late  in  life,  or  not  at  all. 

The  active  literary  career  of  Mrs.  Nichols  is  embraced  within  the  period  of  twelve 
years,  from  about  1840,  though  some  of  her  riper  productions  are  sparsely  scattered 
over  the  five  years  subsequent  to  this  period,  while  for  the  last  few  years  she  seems  to 
have  withdrawn  almost  entirely  from  the  field  of  belle-lettres. 

Rebecca  S.  Reed  was  born  in  Greenwich,  New  Jersey.  While  she  was  yet  a 
child,  her  father,  E.  B.  Reed,  a  physician,  removed  with  his  family  to  the  West,  which 
has  since  been  her  home,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  years  following  1852, 
when  she  resided  at  Philadelphia  and  in  New  Jersey.  While  residing  at  Louisville, 
Kentucky,  in  the  year  1838,  Miss  Reed  was  married  to  Willard  Nichols,  whom  she 
accompanied  to  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  in  1840,  where  Mr.  N.  embarked  in  the 
publication  of  a  daily  news  and  miscellaneous  paper,  in  the  editing  of  which,  Mrs. 
Nichols  assisted  her  husband,  though  she  was  yet  almost  a  child  in  years  and  expe 
rience.  In  1841  Mr.  Nichols  and  wife  left  St.  Louis  to  take  up  their  abode  in  Cin 
cinnati,  where  they  continued  to  reside  most  of  the  time  until  1851.  This  was  a 
period  of  considerable  literary  activity  in  that  region,  which  eventuated  in  the  bring 
ing  out  of  some  of  the  best  writers  the  West  has  ever  produced.  Cotemporary  with 
these,  Mrs.  Nichols  ripened  into  the  acknowledged  mistress  of  song,  with  a  popularity 
in  advaace  of  all  her  lady  competitors  of  that  day. 

Mrs.  Nichols's  earliest  poems  were  published  in  the  Louisville  News  Letter,  and 
Louisville  Journal,  over  the  signature  of  ELLEN.  In  1844  she  published  a  small 
volume  entitled  "Berenice,  or  the  Curse  of  Minna,  and  other  Poems."  The  princi 
pal  poem  in  this  volume  is  a  respectable  girl-tragedy,  of  the  school  that  has  since 
blossomed  into  the  sensational  literature  of  the  Eastern  periodical  press.  Several  of 
the  minor  pieces  are  of  decided  merit.  Only  a  small  edition  of  this  book  was  printed, 
and  it  is  now  rarely  to  be  met  with. 

In  1846  Mrs.  Nichols  conducted  a  literary  periodical  in  Cincinnati,  called  The  Guest, 
which  attained  to  considerable  popularity,  and  in  which  she  published  many  of  her 
poetical  compositions  of  that  period.  She  was  also  a  contributor  to  Graham's  Maga 
zine,  The  Knickerbocker,  and  other  Eastern  periodicals.  Early  in  her  Cincinnati  career, 
Mrs.  Nichols  contributed  to  the  Cincinnati  Herald,  conducted  by  the  late  Gamaliel 
Bailey,  a  series  of  sprightly  papers  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  KATE  CLEAVELAND. 

(290) 


1840-50.]  REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS.  291 


This  mysterious  irruption  into  the  field  of  literature,  was  no  small  puzzle  to  the  critics 
and  amateur  literateurs  of  the  Queen  City,  who,  after  exhausting  all  their  ingenuity 
in  futile  endeavors  to  discover  the  author,  were  forced  to  acknowledge  that,  whoever 
"Kate  Cleaveland"  might  be,  she  was  certainly  a  bright  particular  star  in  the  literary 
firmament.  When  it  became  known  that  the  mysterious  mask  was  no  other  than 
Mrs.  Nichols,  that  lady  had  received  an  indorsement  of  literary  peerage,  as  flattering 
to  herself  as  it  had  been  confounding  to  her  admirers. 

In  1851,  under  the  patronage  of  Nicholas  Longworth,  was  published  a  large  and 
elegant  volume  of  Mrs.  Nichols's  later  poems,  under  the  title  of  "  Songs  of  the  Heart 
and  of  the  Hearth-Stone,"  from  the  press  of  Thomas,  Cowperthwaite  &  Co.,  Phila 
delphia,  and  J.  F.  Desilver,  Cincinnati.  Such  was  the  established  popularity  of  our 
author  at  this  time,  that  the  appreciative  and  enterprising  publishers  of  the  Cincin 
nati  Commercial,  M.  D.  Potter  &  Co.,  entered  into  an  arrangement  with  her,  to  pay 
a  liberal  price  for  an  original  poem  for  each  week,  if  she  chose  to  write  so  often, 
which  arrangement  was  continued  for  some  time,  to  the  honor  of  the  publishers  and  a 
just  recognition  of  the  worth  of  the  writer.  A  collection  of  these  and  other  later 
poems,  with  a  selection  from  her  previous  publications,  would  furnish  material  for  a 
new  volume,  which  would  add  largely  to  the  reputation  of  the  author  as  a  writer  of 
lofty  and  impassioned  verse.  The  two  published  volumes  do  not  contain  any  thing 
of  soulful  eloquence  equal  to  some  of  these  later  pieces,  which  are  as  yet  only  the 
waifs  of  newspaper  broidery. 

From  her  first  entrance  into  literary  life,  Mrs.  Nichols  has  been  tossed  upon  the 
waves  of  circumstance.  The  untimely  death  of  children,  and  the  fluctuations  of 
business,  were  throwing  their  shadows  over  her  young  years,  and  though  of  a  most 
buoyant  and  hopeful  spirit,  she  was  forced  to  mingle  many  tears  with  the  sunniest 
experiences  of  her  life.  Her  natural  buoyancy,  and  a  high-bred  personal  pride — not 
an  offensive  gaud,  but  a  nice  perception  of  the  proprieties  of  civilized  society — have 
been  the  inner  props  to  sustain  her,  where  ordinary  character  would  have  broken 
down  hopelessly  long  before.  The  strongest  and  brightest  phase  of  her  character  is 
that  of  a  Christian  mother,  and  the  wail  of  bereaved  maternity  is  the  most  touching 
utterance  of  her  pen.  Next  to  this,  are  the  infinite  yearnings  of  a  soul  that  would 
find  its  perfect  complement  in  a  love  as  deep  and  holy  as  its  own.  Add  to  these,  an 
instinctive  leaning  toward  the  quiet  of  domestic  life,  and  if  fortune  had  vouchsafed 
her  a  permanent  and  prosperous  home  with  husband  and  children,  the  world  would 
have  heard  little  of  her  minstrelsy,  after  the  first  flush  of  her  girlish  exuberance,  "in 
her  life's  exultant  time." 

With  these  qualifications,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Nichols 
should  exhibit  imagination  so  much  as  emotion,  or  that  it  should  deal  as  eloquently 
with  visible  nature,  as  with  the  reflective  pulses  of  passion ;  and  that  her  chastened 
strains  should  have  been  born  of  a  sorrow  that  sits  above  the  tomb,  as  was  written  of 
her  by  a  poet  friend.  Of  seven  children,  only  two  remain,  whose  pleasant  portraits 
she  has  given  us,  in  the  lines  to  "Wee  Willie"  and  "Lily  Bell."  Of  all  her  cotem- 
poraries  in  the  bright  galaxy  of  song,  who  clustered  in  unenvious  rivalry  at  that  day. 


292 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[1840-50. 


with  none  was  Mrs.  Nichols  in  such  perfect  chord,  as  with  the  true  and  simple-hearted 
Otway  Curry,  and  whose  untimely  grave  she  has  bedewed  with  the  holiest  of  woman's 
tears. 

Notwithstanding  the  palpable  bias  which  we  charge  against  the  versatility  of  Mrs. 
Nichols's  writings,  there  are  in  her  several  productions  a  range  of  subject  and  a  felicity 
of  handling,  in  various  and  dissimilar  styles,  which  effectually  contradict  the  idea 
that  she  was  radically  confined  to  any  class  of  subject  or  mode  of  composition,  as  the 
following  selections  amply  show  her  equally  at  home  in  the  dainty  'dalliance  of  cradle 
song,  the  high-voiced  minstrelsy  of  philosophy,  the  weird  mysticisms  of  imagination, 
and  the  smothered  soul-cry  of  anguish.  With  all  these  qualifications,  we  do  not  hes 
itate  to  present  our  author  as  worthy  of  an  honorable  place  beside  the  noblest  of  the 
children  of  song,  in  our  Hesperian  Republic  of  letters. 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

A  BOON,  oh,  God  of  love  ! 
Who  dwelleth  in  the  sphered  realms  afar, 
Who  hath  "  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning 
star 

In  his  lone  course  "  above. 

Before  thy  throne  we  bow, 
Thou  God,  most  infinitely  holy ;  just 
Are  thy  decrees  to  man ;  what  puny  dust 

Dare  brave  thine  angered  brow  ? 

A  boon  we  humbly  crave 
From  thy  right  hand,  that  hath  mysterious 

power 

To  chain  the  rushing  winds,  renew  the  dy 
ing  hour, 
And  animate  the  grave. 

Look  down  upon  me,  light 
Of  the  eternal  heavens !  o'er  my  soul 
Thy  mantle  spread,  and  with  god-like  con 
trol, 

Dispel  this  darkling  night. 

I  feel  thy  presence  now ; 
And  thou  wilt  gaze  upon  my  sinless  boy, 
The  star  that  centers  all  a  mother's  joy ; 

Look  on  his  stainless  brow. 


Shall  aught  like  crimson  shame 
E'er  blot  that  lovely  and  unsullied  page  ? 
Shall  feelings  war,  and  sinful  passions  rage 

Within  that  fragile  frame  ? 

I  would  not,  at  his  nod, 
That  titled  honors  and  a  deathless  name 
Should  wait,  nor  wealth  of  land  or  fame — 

I  ask  not  these,  oh,  God! 

Nor  may  ambitious  breath 
E'er  taint  this  pure  young  being  with  a  hope 
That  aught  that  appertains  to  dust  can  cope 

With  stern,  relentless  Death ! 

But  till  the  mouldering  sod 
Shall  cover  him  from  view,  may  he  be  bold 
In  thy  defense — and  may  he  ever  hold 

Communion  with  his  God ! 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  TOAD. 

DOWN  deep  in  a  hollow,  so  damp  and  so 

cold, 

Where  oaks  are  by  ivy  o'ergrown, 
The  gray  moss  and  lichen  creep  over  the 

mould, 
Lying  loose  on  a  ponderous  stone. 


1840-50.] 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


293 


Now,  within  this  huge  stone,  like  a  king  on 
his  throne, 

A  toad  has  been  sitting  more  years  than  is 
known  ; 

And  strange  as  it  seems,  yet  he  constantly 
deems 

The  world  standing  still  while  he's  dream 
ing  his  dreams — 

Does  this  wonderful  toad,  in  his  cheerful 
abode 

In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  flinty  old  stone, 

By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'er- 
grown. 

Down  deep  in  the  hollow,  from  morning 

till  night, 

Dun  shadows  glide  over  the  ground, 
Where  a  water-course  once,  as  it  sparkled 

with  light, 

Turned  a  ruined  old  mill-wheel  around : 
Long  years  have  passed  by  since  its  bed 

became  dry, 
And   the   trees   grew    so  close,  scarce   a 

glimpse  of  the  sky 

Is  seen  in  the  hollow,  so  dark  and  so  damp, 
Where  the  glow-worm  at  noonday  is  trim 
ming  his  lamp; 

And  hardly  a  sound,  from  the  thicket  around, 
Where  the  rabbit  and  squirrel  leap  over 

the  ground, 

Is  heard  by  the  toad,  in  his  spacious  abode, 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  ponderous 

stone, 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen 

o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  that  hollow  the  bees  never 

come; 

The  shade  is  too  black  for  a  flower; 
And  jewel-winged  birds,  with  their  musical 

hum, 

Never  flash  in  the  night  of  that  bower : 
But  the  cold-blooded  snake,  in  the  edge  of 

the  brake, 
Lies  amid  the  rank  grass  half  asleep,  half 

awake ; 


And  the  ashen-white  snail,  with  the  slime 

in  its  trail, 

Moves  wearily  on,  like  a  life's  tedious  tale, 
Yet  disturbs  not  the  toad  in  his  spacious 

abode, 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  flinty  old 

stone, 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen 

o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow  some  wiseacres  sit, 

Like  the  toad  in  his  cell  in  the  stone ; 
Around  them,  in  daylight,  the  blind  owlets 

flit, 

And  their  creeds  are  by  ivy  o'ergrown : 
Their  streams  may  go  dry,  and  the  wheels 

cease  to  ply, 
And  their  glimpses  be  few  of  the  sun  and 

the  sky, 

Still  they  hug  to  their  breast  every  time- 
honored  guest, 

And  slumber  and  doze  in  inglorious  rest ; 
For  no  progress  they  find   in   the  wide 

sphere  of  mind, 
And  the  world's  standing  still  with  all  of 

their  kind ; 

Contented  to  dwell  down  deep  in  the  well, 
Or  move,  like  the  snail,  in  the  crust  of  his 

shell; 

Or  live,  like  the  toad,  in  his  narrow  abode, 
With  their  souls  closely  wedged  in  a  thick 

wall  of  stone, 
By  the  gray  weeds  of  prejudice  rankly 


THE  LOST  SOUL. 

MY  soul  went  out  in  darkness,  like  the 
moon, 

When  sudden  clouds  drive  o'er  the  mid 
night  sky; 

And  life  was  at  its  zenith ;  the  hot  noon 

Had  scorched  and  withered  with  its  flamin 


29-4 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[1840-50. 


All    of   my  spring's   sweet    children  that 

could  die ; 
But  some  there  were,  though  shrunken  by 

the  fire, 

Bright  blossoms  grown  for  immortality — 
Stood  up  beneath  the  fierceness  of  that  ire, 
As  strings,  though  broke,  will  cling  unto 

the  master's  lyre. 

The  year  was  young — it  was  the  tender 

May, 
When  violet-sandaled  feet  were  wet  with 

dew  ; 

The  roses  budded  on  the  nodding  spray. 
And  leaves  were  green  upon  the  solemn 

yew 
That  from  the  bosom  of  the  church-yard 

grew ; 

The  moss  assumed  a  softer,  deeper  tone, 
Where  streams  tripped  lightly  o'er  their 

pebbled  way, 
And  in  its  emerald  robes,  with  diamond 

zone, 
The  Earth  lay  like  a  child  that  sleeps 

without  a  moan. 

The  soul  that  wandered  through  the  halls 
of  night, 

Where  darkness  curtained  every  windowed 
dome, 

Was  stung  to  madness  ere  it  fled  the  light ; 

And  as  a  star  unsphered  might  wildly  roam 

Through  seas  of  space,  and  airy  clouds  of 
foam, 

Blind  to  all  laws  that  govern,  rule,  or  guide, 

Still  shooting  onward  in  its  dreary  flight ! 

Thus  did  that  soul  from  this  warm  life  di 
vide, 

And  rush  where  darkness  rolls  its  strong 
and  swollen  tide. 

The  year  was  young,  and  to  the  blushing 

morn 
That  came  all  smiling  from  the  arms  of 

night, 


And  to  the  soft-eyed  flowers,  then  newly 

born, 

And  to  the  winds  that  whispered  their  de 
light, 

Where  winged  odors  nestled  from  the  sight, 
My  heart,  in  passionate  entreaty  cried 
(Still  bleeding  inward  from  a  deadly  thorn), 
u  Oh,  give  me  back  my  soul !  the  true — the 

tried  "— 
But  echo's  empty  voice  alone  to  it  replied ! 

Along  new  paths,  o'er  beds  of  perfumed 

thyme, 
Whose  soul  exhaled  beneath  my  lingering 

tread ; 
And  under  roofs,  where  soft  the  yellow 

lime 
Shone  like  faint  stars  amid  the  leaves  o'er- 

head; 

And  through  the  valleys  where  the  way 
worn  dead 
Had  made  firm  covenant  with  Death  for 

rest 

From  all  the  tortures  of  this  present  time, 
This   heart,   still  throbbing  wildly  in  its 

breast, 
My  half-reluctant  feet  yet  onward,  onward 

pressed. 

Through  lone,  black  forests,  and  through 

blacker  caves, 
The  darkness  rustling  like  a  velvet  pall, 
Where  roars  the  sound  of  unseen,  hurry 
ing  waves, 

That  dash  against  the  adamantine  wall, 
Or  rush  all  sullen  to  their  dreadful  fall ! 
No  star  e'er  lighting  the  perpetual  gloom, 
But    where    the    imprisoned    wind   more 

hoarsely  raves, 

Whirling  its  victims  to  an  awful  doom, 
If  guideless  they  go  down  the  fearful,  sun 
less  tomb ! 

On,  o'er  frail  bridges  swung  from  steep  to 

steep 
Of  cloud-defying  cliffs,  whose  dizzy  height 


1840-50.] 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


295 


The  fearless  chamois  scarce  would  dare  to 

leap  ! 
While    far   below,   oh,   wan    and    dismal 

sight ! 
Lay  bleaching  bones  :  the  traveler  shrinks 

in  fright, 

As  leaning  midway  o'er  the  deep  abyss, 
His  shuddering  nerves  like  adders  o'er  him 

creep ! 
While    flashing    through    his    brain    are 

thoughts  like  this — 
"  Plow  short  a  step  is  here  to  lasting  woe 

or  bliss ! " 

And  onward   still!   through   long,  bright 

summer  days, 
When    sunshine    rippled    o'er    a   sea   of 


Down  mossy  hollows — over  brier)7  ways — 
Through  lonely  gorge  and  arched  and  rocky 

pass, 
Whose  gloomy  grandeur  pierced  my  heart 

— alas ! 

That  not  a  moment  of  one  perished  hour, 
E'er  held  a  rainbow  in  its  glittering  rays, 
To  lure  me  up  to  an  immortal  bower, 
Where  Hope,  divinely  bright,  shines  out 

through  cloud  and  shower ! 

At  length  the  Autumn,  drunken  deep  with 

wines, 
Drained  from  the  purple  grape,  reeled  o'er 

the  land ; 
His  frosty  fingers  pinched  the  rambling 

vines ; 
His  breath  came  cutting  through  the  breezes 

bland ; 
On  fruit  and  flower  was  laid  a  palsying 

hand ; 
The  long-drawn  notes  of  insect-lyres  no 

more 

Thrilled  the  young  twilight  of  the  whis 
pering  pines ; 

A  stillness  stole  along  the  wood  and  shore, 
And  Summer's  gentle  trance,  with  all  its 

joys,  was  o'er. 


But  ever  still  was  this  my  heart's  shrill  cry 
(That,  like  a  prisoned  eagle,  beat  its  bars), 
Oh !  give  me  back  my  soul,  thou  pure,  blue 

sky, 

Or  draw  me  upward  to  thy  sphered  stars, 
Enthroned  like  gods  upon   their  flaming 

cars, 
Their  wheels  strike  fire  as  swift  they  roll 

through  space — 

Oh,  leave  me  not  alone,  my  soul,  to  die ! 
Give  me  one  print  thy  flying  track  to  trace, 
Lest,  lifting  up  my  voice,  I  curse  thee  and 

thy  race ! 

But  the  sky  heard  not,  and  the  moon  grew 

dim, 
As  mists  wound  upward  from  the  sleeping 

vale; 
Like  giant  forms,  they  climbed  the  heaven's 

blue  rim, 
And  all  the  stars  grew  sudden  faint  and 

pale, 
As  through  the  forests  came  the  hollow 

wail 

Of  spectral  winds,  that  madly  swept  along, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  ocean's  hymn, 
Burst    into   chorus   wild   and    deep   and 

strong, 
Till  all  the  caves  of  night  o'erflowed  with 

mournful  song ! 

Then,  by  the  margin  of  that  mighty  river 

That  rolls  between  us  and  the  shores  of 
rest, 

Whose  bitter  waves  flow  on,  and  on,  for 
ever, 

With  hapless  shipwrecks  on  their  heaving 
breast, 

Drifting,  like  shadows,  toward  the  climes 
unblessed — 

My  wandering  feet  were  stayed — and  there 
I  mourned 

The  broken  arrows  in  life's  golden  quiver, 

The  ashes  dead  that  on  hope's  altar  burned; 

While  all  my  vital  part  for  its  lost  essence 
yearned. 


296 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[1840-50. 


And  still  I  sit  among  the  rustling  reeds, 
The  plumed  flags  that  rock  upon  the  breeze 
Amid    the   sands,  and    shells,    and    brinj 

weeds, 

And  broken  boughs  of  branching  coral  trees 
The  sparkling  waif's  of  dim  and  distan 

seas  ; — 

My  heart,  still  wailing  that  which  fled  be 
fore, 
Counts  its  lost   moments,  as   a   nun   her 

beads, 

With  eager  haste,  to  pass  beyond  the  shore 

Where  anguished  ones  may  rest,  and  night 

returns  no  more ! 


THE  SHADOW. 

TWICE  beside  the  crumbling  well, 

Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fast — 
Twice  the  shadow  on  them  fell, 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past. 
"  Shines  the  moon  this  eve,  as  brightly 

As  the  harvest-moon  may  shine  ; 
Stands  each  star  that  glimmers  nightly, 

Like  a  saint,  within  its  shrine  ; 
Whence  the  shade,  then,  whence  the  shad 
ow? 

Canst  thou  tell,  sweet  lady  mine  ?" 

But  the  lady's  cheek  was  pale, 

And  her  lips  were  marble  white, 
As  she  clasped  her  silken  vail, 

Floating  in  the  silver  light ; 
Like  an  angel's  wing  it  glistened, 

Like  a  sybil  seemed  the  maid ; 
But  in  vain  the  lover  listened ; 

Silence  on  her  lips  was  laid — 
Though  they  moved,  no  sound  had  broken 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  glade. 

Brighter  grew  her  burning  eyes ; 

Wan  and  thin  the  rounded  cheek ; 
Wa<  it  terror  or  surprise, 

That  forbade  the  lips  to  speak  ? 


To  his  heart,  then,  creeping  slowly, 
Came  a  strange  and  deadly  fear ; 

Words  and  sounds  profane,  unholy, 
Stole  into  his  shrinking  ear  : 

O 

And  the  moon  sank  sudden  downward, 
Leaving  earth  and  heaven  drear ! 

Slowly  from  the  lady's  lips 

Burst  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh, 
As  from  some  long,  dark  eclipse, 

Rose  the  red  moon  in  the  sky ; 
Saw  he  then  the  lady  kneeling, 

Cold  and  fainting  by  the  well ; 
Eyes,  once  filled  with  tender  meaning. 

Closed  beneath  some  hidden  spell ; 
What  was  heard  he  dared  not  whisper, 

What  he  feared  were  death  to  tell. 

The  little  hand  was  wondrous  fair, 

Which  to  him  so  wildly  clung ; 
Raven  was  the  glossy  hair 

From  off  the  snowy  forehead  flung ; 
Much  too  fair,  that  hand,  for  staining 

With  a  crime  of  darkest  dye : 
But  the  moon  again  is  waning 

In  the  pale  and  starless  sky  ; 
Hark  !  what  words  are  slowly  falling 

On  the  breeze  that  sweeps  them  by  ? 

"  Touch  her  not ! "  the  voice  it  said, 

"  Wrench  thy  mantle  from  her  grasp ; " 
Thus  the  disembodied  dead 

Warns  from  that  polluting  clasp ; 
"  Touch  her  not,  but  still  look  on  her ; 

All  an  angel  seemeth  she  ; 
Yet  the  guilty  stains  upon  her 

Shame  the  fiend's  dark  company ! 
But  her  hideous  crime  is  nameless 

Under  heaven's  canopy." 

Twice  beside  the  crumbling  well, 
Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fast ; 

Twice  the  shadow  on  them  fell, 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past ; — 

Twice  the  voice's  hollow  warnin^, 

o> 

Pierced  the  haunted  midnight  air ; 


1840-50.] 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


297 


Then  the  golden  light  of  morning 
Streamed  upon  the  lady  there ; 

They  who  found  her,  stark  and  lonely, 
Said  the  corse  was  very  fair. 


WEE  WILLIE. 

OUR  Willie  is  a  little  boy, 

I  do  not  know  a  bolder ; 
And,  though  his  years  are  scarcely  two 

He  seems,  to  us,  much  older; 
He  is  a  famous  hand  at  play, 

With  horse  and  whip,  or  rattle, 
And  more  than  half  the  summer-day, 

Delights  us  with  his  prattle. 

Wee  Willie  loves  the  open  air, 

Far  from  the  dusty  city  ; 
And  though  he's  brown  as  any  hue, 

To  us  he's  fair  and  pretty. 
We  see  him  not  as  others  see, 

Perhaps,  not  half  so  clearly, 
Yet,  if  more  beautiful  to  us, 

'Tis — that  we  love  more  dearly. 

Wee  Willie  has  a  little  song, 

He  sings  when  he  is  merry, — 
Each  small  word  lingering  on  his  lip, 

Like  bird  upon  a  cherry, — 
He  has  not  learned  to  utter,  yet, 

His  thoughts,  in  speech  unbroken ; 
But  deepest  joy  to  us  they  give, 

Although  but  partly  spoken. 

Wee  Willie  has  some  naughty  ways, 

His  warmest  friends  displeasing, — 
Is  willful  when  his  sport  is  crossed, 

And  fond  of  noise  and  teasing: 
But  then  he  is  so  small  a  boy, 

We  hope  by  word  and  letter, 
To  teach  him  ere  he  grows  a  man, 

Some  gentler  way,  and  better. 

Wee  Willie  is  the  last  of  four,— 
The  others  sweetly  slumber ; 


For  counting  o'er  our  little  flock, 
Three  angels  now  we  number : 

Three  angels  gone,  and  in  our  hearts 
Three  wounds  our  grief  attesting : 

And  in  the  church-yard,  side  by  side, 
Three  little  coffins  resting. 

Wee  Willie  is  our  only  child, — 

Our  hope — our  bud  of  brightness  ; 
He  came,  a  bird,  in  sorrow's  gloom, 

With  song  and  smile  of  lightness ; 
What  wonder,  then,  that  while  we  love, 

It  is  with  fear  and  trembling, 
Lest,  in  this  happy,  healthful  guise, 

Dark  Death  should  be  dissembling. 

Wee  Willie !  may  that  Mighty  Arm, 

Which  guards  His  children  ever, 
Give  strength  unto  thy  faltering  steps, 

And  to  each  weak  endeavor. 
Our  Father!  fill  Wee  Willie's  heart 

With  thought  and  purpose  holy, 
And  grant  to  him  that  priceless  gem — 

A  spirit  meek  and  lowly. 


A  LAMENT. 

[  DO  lament  me  ! — If  my  love  had  died — 
Had  sought  the  verge  of  Death's   ex 
treme  abyss, 
Barbed    in    immortal   truth!   they   would 

have  lied 

Who  said  that  grief  had  not  been  heaven 
to  this ! 

'.  might  have  risen  from  the  stunning  blow 
And  wept  and  raved,  accusing  madly, 

Heaven  ! 

Then  midst  the  sudden  blasphemy  of  woe 
Dropped  by  the  dead,  and  prayed  to  be 
forgiven  ! 


298 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[1840-50. 


I  might  have  grown  appalled  and  shrunk 

away 

From  the  eternal  paleness  on  that  brow  ! 
And  from  those  eyes  that  made  my  dark 
ness  day, 

Eclipsed   forever!    by   their   curtaining 
snow. 


I  might  have  long  consumed  the  dismal 

nights 
With   fasting   vigils;    and   have   flung 

aside 
All  thoughts,  all  feelings,  hopes  and  young 

delights, 
That  were  my  solace,  ere  my  lover  died. 

Soon  I  had  worn  a  path  across  the  sward. 
To  that  new-shapen  mound  among  the 

flowers, 

There,  like  a  stricken,  love-forsaken  bard, 
To   sing   sad  anthems  to  the  moaning 
hours ! 

Bereft  of  thee,  the  sun  had  shone  in  vain ! 
No  star  had  gilt  the  darkness  of  my 

gloom; 

My  only  joy,  each  year,  to  hail  again 
Spring's  flowery   footprints    round   thy 
grassy  tomb ! 

I   do   lament   me! — Though   earth   holds 

thee,  still 
Do  I  not  know  thou'rt  wholly  dead  to 

me? 
That  never  more  thy  name  can  wake  the 

thrill 

That  stirred  each  trembling  pulse  to  ec- 
stacy ! 

The  dreamy  passions  of  the  quickening 

spring— 

The  faint,  delicious  languor  of  her  mood, 
Shall  round  my  soul  no  more  their  sorcery 

fling, 
Or  loose  the  currents  of  my  frozen  blood. 


The  floating  fragrance  of  the  summer  air — 
The   dazzling  radiance  of  the  evening 

skies — 

The  brooding  night  that  seems  in  breath 
less  prayer ; 
All  are  as  naught  to  my  obdurate  eyes. 

For  I  am  dead  to  beauty  and  to  love, 
Since  thou  hast  died   thus   early  unto 

me :  — 

The  flowers  below,  the  burning  stars  above, 
Are  linked  in  thought  with  perfidy  and 
thee ! 

I  do  lament  me  !     Yet  no  folded  palms, 
Nor    "outward    show"    of    unremitting 
grief, 

Shall  ask  of  Pity,  crystal  drops,  for  alms, 
As  by  the  wayside,  beggars  crave  relief. 

For  I  have  wrapped  me  in  an  ermined 

pride, 

And  haughty  scorn  is  my  familiar  friend ; 
And  if  I  weep,  the  weakness  I  deride, 
While  shame  and  anger  with  my  suffer 
ings  blend. 

I  do   lament   me !     List !     I  pledge  this 

draught 

Of  myrrh  and  rue  and  fringing  worm 
wood's  gall 
To  deep  Oblivion ! — Aye !  the  fiends  have 

laughed  ! 
I  live  no  longer,  in  forgetting  all ! 


THE  POET'S  ISLE. 

ALL  night  long,  my  soul  is  haunted 

By  a  dream  of  other  days — 
Of  a  flowery  isle,  enchanted, 

Hidden  from  the  fierce  sun's  rays; 
Lighted  by  the  softened  splendor 

Of  a  holy,  harvest-moon, 
And  the  saint-like  eyes,  so  tender, 

Glowing  at  the  midnight  noon. 


1840-50.] 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


299 


In  this  green  and  blooming  island, 

Cluster  sweets  of  every  clime  ; 
All  the  charms  of  vale,  and  highland, 

Ripening  with  the  breath  of  Time : 
Fruits  of  mellow  gold,  the  brightest, 

Hang  on  branches,  drooping  low ; 
Birds  of  song,  with  plumes  the  whitest, 

Drift  like  snow-flakes  to  and  fro. 

Wind-harps  swing  in  every  blossom, 

And  each  viewless,  wandering  air, 
Cradled  on  the  Ocean's  bosom, 

Hastes  to  waken  music  there  : 
Grasses  long,  transparent,  waving — 

Mosses,  thick  with  buds  inlaid, 
When  my  soul  repose  is  craving, 

Woo  me  to  their  velvet  shade. 

Round  about,  the  waves  are  flowing, 

Murmuring  wonders  of  the  deep — 
Of  the  coral  forests,  growing 

Where  the  emerald  ivies  creep :  — 
Of  the  lamp-like  jewels,  shining 

In  the  fretted,  sea-washed  halls, 
And  the  rainbow-shells  entwining, 

Garlanding  the  crystal  walls. 

Many  a  song  like  this  they've  sung  me 

In  the  old  enchanted  hours, 
Ere  Life's  serpent-woes  had  stung  me, 

Couched  amid  love's  purple  flowers ! 
Many  a  song,  of  wondrous  sweetness, 

Which  my  heart  can  ne'er  forget, 
Bearing  with  their  dream-like  fleetness, 

My  most  passionate  regret ! 

Well  I  know  the  luster  beaming 

From  those  soft  and  cloudless  skies ; 
Well  the  odors,  faintly  teeming 

With  the  breath  of  Paradise : 
Well  I  know  the  rush  of  feeling 

Overwhelming  heart  and  brain, 
And  the  subtile  rapture  stealing — 

Rapture  which  resembles  pain. 

When  or  where  my  youthful  spirit 
Found  this  sparkling  isle  of  bliss, 


Which  the  angels  might  inherit 
(With  no  stint  of  happiness), 

I've  no  power  to  tell  in  numbers, 

And  slight  knowledge  where  to  place 

That  which,  haunting  all  my  slumbers, 
No  existence  has  in  space ! 

In  the  fadeless  realms  of  Fairy, — 

In  Imagination's  clime, 
Where  the  banners,  silken,  airy, 

Float  above  the  walls  of  time ; 
There  this  Poet's  Isle  may  wander, 

Like  a  planet  lost  at  birth, 
Till  the  enamored  soul,  grown  fonder — 

Meets  it  midway  from  the  Earth  ! 


LITTLE  NELL. 

SPRING,  with  breezes  cool  and  airy, 
Opened  on  a  little  fairy ; 
Ever  restless,  making  merry, 
She,  with  pouting  lips  of  cherry, 
Lisped  the  words  she  could  not  master, 
Vexed  that  she  might  speak  no  faster, — 
Laughing,  running,  playing,  dancing, 
Mischief  all  her  joys  enhancing ; 
Full  of  baby-mirth  and  glee, 
It  was  a  joyous  sight  to  see 

Sweet  little  Nell. 

Summer  came,  the  green  earth's  lover, 
Ripening  the  tufted  clover — 
Calling  down  the  glittering  showers, 
Breathing  on  the  buds  and  flowers  : 
Rivaling  young  pleasant  May, 
In  a  generous  holiday ! 
Smallest  insects  hummed  a  tune, 
Through  the  blessed  nights  of  June: 
And  the  maiden  sung  her  song, 
Through  the  days  so  bright  and  long — 
Dear  little  Nell. 


300 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[1840-50. 


Autumn  came !  the  leaves  were  falling — 
Death,  the  little  one  was  calling : 
Pale  and  wan  she  grew,  and  weakly, 
Bearing  all  her  pains  so  meekly, 
That  to  us,  she  seemed  still  dearer 
As  the  trial-hour  drew  nearer ; 
But  she  left  us,  hopeless,  lonely, 
Watching  by  her  semblance  only : 
And  a  little  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  church-yard,  cold,  they  laid  her — 
Laid  her  softly  down  to  rest, 
With  a  white  rose  on  her  breast — 
Poor  little  Nell! 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

IT  is  the  Indian  Summer  time, 

The  days  of  mist,  and  haze  and  glory, 
And  on  the  leaves  in  hues  sublime, 

The   Autumn    paints    poor    Summer's 

story ; 
" ;  She  died  in  beauty,' "  sing  the  hours, 

"And  left  on  earth  a  glorious  shadow  ; 
"  *  She  died  in  beauty,'  like  her  flowers," 

Is  painted  on  each  wood  and  meadow : — 
She  perished  like  bright  human  hopes, 

That  blaze  awhile  upon  life's  altar ; 
And  o'er  her  green  and  sunny  slopes 

The  plaintive  winds  her  dirges  falter. 

It  is  the  Indian  Summer  time ! 

The  crimson  leaves,  like  coals  are  gleam 
ing, 
The  brightest  tints  of  every  clime 

Are  o'er  our  Western  forests  streaming ; 
How  bright  the  hours  !  yet  o'er  their  close, 

The  moments  sigh  in  mournful  duty, 
And  redder  light  around  them  glows, 

Like  hectic  on  the  cheek  of  beauty. 
Fair  maiden,  when  thy  spring  is  o'er, 

And  all  thy  summer  flowers  are  gath 
ered, 
May  Autumn  with  a  golden  store, 

Replace  the  buds  so  quickly  withered ; 


And  bind  unto  thy  heart  this  truth, 
That  it  may  live  when  dead  thy  roses, 

"  Religion  is  the  light  of  youth, 

And  gilds  life's  Autumn  as  it  closes." 


SONG. 

HAD  I  met  thee,  had  I  met  thee ! 

In  our  life's  exulting  time, 
When  to  dream  of  thee  were  innocent — 

To  love  thee  were  not  crime — 
My  heart  had  borne  the  riper  fruit, 

Of  a  richer,  rarer  clime — 
Had  I  met  thee — had  I  loved  thee 

In  our  life's  exulting  time. 

Had  I  met  thee — had  I  loved  thee  ! 

Ere  my  life  was  like  the  light 
That  divides  the  fading  sunset 

From  the  gathering  glooms  of  night, 
Then  my  visions  had  been  fairer, 

And  my  soul  had  known  no  blight, 
Had  I  met  thee — had  I  loved  thee  ! 

Ere  life's  sun  went  out  in  night ! 


TO-DAY. 

As  into  space,  from  poet's  prophet  tongue, 
Fall  cadenced  thoughts,  harmonious  as 

the  spheres; 

So  by  Time's  voices  syllabled  and  sung, 
The  hours  drop  down  the  silent  gulf  of 
years ! 

Farewell,  fleet  moments !  which  are  ours 

no  more, 

How  swift  ye  flew  along  the  dial's  way ! 
And  now,  transfigured  on  that  distant  shore, 
Ye  make  the  Present's  solemn  yester 
day ! 


1840-50.] 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


301 


Wide  grave,  to  which  the  morrows  all  are 

whirled, 
By    Time's    steep    car   that    ne'er   has 

paused  to  rest, 
Since  first  its  wheels  went  circling  round 

our  world, 
Wearing   deep    furrows    in    its   rocky 
breast. 

Through  the  long  yesterday  of  cycles  past, 
We  grope,  to  find  a  self-illumined  page, 

Which  like  a  star  within  a  dreary  vast, 
Reveals  but  darkness  of  a  by-gone  age. 

We  read  that  man  who  turned  aside  from 

God, 

Begot  a  loathsome  leprosy  within ; 
Incarnadined    his     hands   with    brother's 

blood, 
And  made  foul  sacrifice  to  new-born  sin. 

Death  and  destruction  followed  in  his  path; 
Fair  Knowledge  shrieked  and  hid  her 

from  his  gaze ; 

The  slave  of  Ignorance,  man's  cruel  wrath 
Stamped  with  red  guilt  those  early  evil 
days. 

This  night  of  horror  past,  the  dawning  came ; 

Now,  beauteous  feet  of  Wisdom  walk 

the  Earth ; 
On  Freedom's  altar  burns  a  heavenly  flame, 

The  world  rejoices  in  its  second  birth ! 

Fair  sons  of  Science,  revel  in  the  light ! 
Your  star  shall  pierce  all  hidden  depths 

of  things  ; 

Teacher  and  Toiler,  your  task  unite, 
And  crowns  shall  prove  the  empty  dream 
of  kings. 

The  watch-words,  "Peace,  Good-will"  from 

man  to  man, 
Those  golden  lessons  by  the  Meek  One 

taught, 

Which  down  the  serried  lines  of  ages  ran, 
Until    To-day's    blessed     liberty    they 
wrought. 


"Peace    and     Good- will!"     transcendent 

words  of  power, 

Written  in  stars  upon  the  azure  way ; 
Guides  of  the  year,  and  guardians  of  the 

hour, 

Our  promise  yesterday — our  hope  To 
day ! 


SLEEP. 

I  SAID  to  Sleep, 
That  dreamy-lidded  seraph  of  delight, 

Stealing  from  caves 
Where  muffled  darkness  laves 
The  haunted  shores  of  night — 
Come,  thou,  and  let  us  keep 
The  silences  together ;  on  thy  breast 

This  weary  heart  would  rest, 
The  world's  corroding  cares  forgetting  quite. 

Thy  balmy  breath 

Shall  bathe  each  sense  in  slumber — as  the 
dew, 

Falling  on  flowers, 
Through  all  the  curtained  hours, 
Lends  them  a  fresher  hue, 
And  holds  them  back  from  death — 
So  thy  harmonious  dreams  shall  rain  on  me, 

In  floods  of  melody, 
Till  all  the  springs  of  life  shall  gush  anew. 

Bear  me  away 
To  that  mist-curtained  and  enchanted  land, 

Where  all  the  isles 
Are  dimpled  deep  with  smiles 
Of  rippling  verdure,  fanned 
By  spicy  gales  the  day, 
Where    stars   illumine   the   blue  concave 

skies, 

As  love-enkindled  eyes 
The  face  of  beauty,  by  Jehovah  planned. 

There,  in  the  bowers 
Thick-lined  with  moss,  and  twinkling  starry 
blooms, 


302 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


[1840-50. 


O'erarched  with  leaves, 
The  arrowy  sunlight  cleaves, 
Gilding  the  emerald  glooms, 
Couched  on  the  dew-lipped  flowers, 
Let  me  lie,  listening  to  the  breezy  chimes 

Among  the  glistening  limes, 
While  yawning  night  the  heavenly  day  en 
tombs. 

Snatch  me  from  earth ! 
Shut  out  all  sights  of  horror,  guilt's  quick 
pains, 

The  sufferer's  cries, 
Oppression's  monstrous  lies  ! 
Wherewith  it  gilds  its  chains ; 
The  home  defiled — the  hearth, 
Where  innocence  and  love  united  dwelt, 

And  low-voiced  prayer  knelt, 
Till  slid  the  serpent  in  those  fair  domains. 

All  evil  things 

That  crawl  and  trail  their  slime  along  the 
leaves 

And  blooms  of  life — 
The  scorns,  the  hates,  the  strife 
For  power,  the  mildewed  sheaves, 
Unwholesome  contact, — stings 
That  hide  their  venom  'neath  a  mocking 

smile. 

Distilling  death  the  while, 
Like  poisonous  vapors  on  the  starry  eves. 

The  day  is  long — 

How  long,  O  God !   when  ignorance  and 
sin 

In  its  fair  light 

Plan  deeds  of  darkest  night — 
When  vice  and  folly  win 
The  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
While  lowly  worth  and  virtue  shrink  aside 

From  bloated,  boasted  pride, 
Who    paves    the    stony    way   for    human 
wrong ! 

The  day  is  long  ! 
When  blush  its  roses  in  the  orient  skies, 


The  world  awakes ! 
And  as  the  morning  breaks, 
Thousands  of  tearful  eyes, 
That  weep  misfortune's  wrong, 
Lift  up  their  piteous  orbs  to  heaven  above, 

Despairing  of  his  love, 
Who  notes  the  humble  sparrow  when  it 
dies. 

Then,  from  narrow  street 
And  dingy  alley — from  the  deepened  walls 

Of  loathsome  dens, 
Fouler  than  green-webbed  fens — 
The  human  earth-worm  crawls  ! 
Dragging  his  listless  feet 
Through  the  broad  thoroughfares  of  blaz 
ing  day, 

His  palm  outstretched  alway 
For  pity's  scanty  mite  that  coldly  falls. 

For  all  who  earn 

By  sweat  and  pain,  their  wretched  crust  of 
bread 

The  day  is  long ! 
Labor  unto  the  strong, 
The  well,  the  clad,  the  fed, 
Is  blessed  ;  the  weak  and  worn 
Shrink  from   the  toil;    their  miseries  no 

name, 

Allied  to  grief  and  shame, 
Could  half  express  the  height,  and  depth, 
and  dread. 

Deal  kindly,  Sleep  ! 
With  these  forsaken  ones — dry  up  their 
tears. 

Let  sweet  repose 
Lap  them  from  hungry  woes 
Which  feed  on  their  young  years ! 
Through  thy  dear  watches  keep 
The  grim,  devouring  phantom  from  thy 

breast, 

That  all  the  tides  of  rest 
May  flow  in  lulling  calmness   o'er   their 
fears. 


GEOI1GE  W.  CUTTER. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CUTTER  was  born  in  Kentucky,  we  believe,  though  pre 
cisely  where  or  when,  we  have  been  unable  to  ascertain.  Nor,  though  his  life  has 
been  eventful,  have  we  found  any  source  of  facts  and  figures  from  which  to  make  it 
appear  significant  on  paper.  The  reader  must  therefore  content  himself  with  what 
vague  information  we  can  give  him.  Mr.  Cutter  appears  to  be  about  forty-five  years 
old  ;  is  large,  well  proportioned,  and  imposing,  and  has  a  full,  flush  countenance,  whose 
handsome  expression  the  small-pox,  doing  its  worst,  has  but  little  impaired.  He  is  a 
lawyer  by  profession,  and  was  at  one  time  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Legislature.  But 
both  the  appearance  of  the  man  and  the  spirit  of  his  poetry  evince  too  strong  a  tem 
perament  for  the  tame,  "even  tenor"  of  a  civilian's  life;  and  accordingly,  when  the 
Mexican  war  broke  out,  he  joined  the  army  as  a  Captain  of  volunteers,  and  served  a 
brilliant  campaign ;  a  spirited  reminiscence  of  which  he  has  given  us  in  the  poem  of 
"  Buena  Vista,"  which  he  is  said  to  have  written  on  the  field  after  the  battle.  Mr. 
Cutter  has  been  twice  married  ;  first  to  Mrs.  Alexander  Drake  the  actress  ;  and  next 
to  "Althea,"  whose  portrait  is  the  frontispiece  of  his  last  volume.  We  believe  he  is 
at  present  a  member  of  the  Washington  bar. 

The  volume  entitled  "Poems,  National  and  Patriotic,"  published  in  1857,  at  Phil 
adelphia,  contains  perhaps  all  the  poems  that  Mr.  Cutter  has  thought  worthy  of  pres 
ervation,  though  there  are  extant  two  other  previous  collections  of  his  writings.  This 
is  a  book  of  two  hundred  and  seventy-nine  pages,  consisting  of  quite  a  lengthy  pre 
face  and  sixty-nine  poems,  of  which  latter,  "  The  Captive "  is  first  in  order  and  extent, 
but  not  first  in  rank,  by  any  means.  It  is  an  Indian  poem,  and,  like  most  Indian 
poems^  is  very  un-Indian  indeed — making  Tecumseh,  the  secretive  and  reticent  savage, 
talk  page  after  page  of  heavy  tragedy,  as  though  he  had  learned  the  whole  civilized 
art  of  how  not  to  say  it.  Tecumseh  shows  himself  versed,  too,  in  ancient  mythology, 
when  he  says, 

"All  goddess— like  the  fabled  birth 

Of  Pallas  from  the  brain ! " 
And, 

"  When  softly  rose  the  Qneen  of  Love 
All  glowing  from  the  sea!  " 

A  classic  Indian  was  Tecumseh,  truly — aye,  and  a  traveled  Indian,  forsooth  ;  else  how 
should  he  fancy  that 

"  The  moon  was  piled  like  a  broken  wreath 
Of  snow  on  an  Alp  of  cloud  ? " 

But,  by  these  little  phenomena  of  Tecumseh  in  "  The  Captive,"  we  are  led  at  once 
to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Cutter  is  not  a  poet  of  art,  but  a  poet  born.  It  is  not  his  business, 
any  more  than  it  is  the  bobolink's,  to  construct  sweet  tones  into  consistent  tunes.  The 

(  303) 


304  GEORGE    W.    CUTTER.  [I840-r>u. 

tones  may  come  of  themselves,  and  link  themselves  together,  and  sing  themselves,  if 
they  will ;  but  they  get  little  help  from  Mr.  Cutter,  that  is  clear.  The  poetic  spirit 
with  which  he  is  possessed,  takes  him  and  does  with  him  whatsoever  it  will.  He  feels 
more  poetry  than  he  writes.  Now  and  then  the  pent  lightning  within  him  flashes 
forth  full  into  the  dark  of  language,  and  dazzles  all ;  but  for  the  most  part  he  has  not 
half  told  himself,  because  he  has  never  studied  expression.  Poetry  may  be  born,  it 
is  true ;  but  it  is  not  born  into  language :  expression  is  an  achievement  of  high  art, 
wherein  "  there  is  no  excellence  without  great  labor."  And,  from  the  manifestations 
of  genius  in  Mr.  Cutter's  poems,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  had  he  patiently  and 
assiduously  applied  this  labor,  America  could  have  boasted  a  real,  live  lyric  poet. 
"The  Song  of  Steam,"  penned  in  an  hour  of  such  high  inspiration  as  sometimes  comes 
with  a  power  of  miracles,  is,  we  think,  a  fair  indication  of  his  capacity.  And  this 
opinion  is  corroborated  by  "The  Song  of  Lightning,"  and  by  passages  all  through  his 
writings — horizon-flashes  of  that  lightning  which  wanted  but  the  fit  medium  of  lan 
guage  in  order  to  illumine  and  electrify  the  world.  Many  of  these  passages  are  equal, 
as  far  as  they  go,  to  "The  Song  of  Steam,"  but  they  do  not  go  far;  they  are  not  sus 
tained  ;  the  divine  element  of  patience  is  not  in  them — the  principle  "  to  labor  and  to 
wait." 

"The  Song  of  Steam"  has  been  as  popular  perhaps  as  any  other  lyric  of  the  century; 
and  it  will  be  popular  as  long  as  steam  itself  is  popular.  It  is  the  whole  sublime 
power  of  that  element  wrought  out  into  thunderous  verse.  Sublimity,  indeed,  is  Mr. 
Cutter's  forte.  Hence  war  and  the  glorious  fatherland  are  his  principal  themes.  It 
is  the  subtile  electricity  of  poetry  and  the  hot  energy  of  battle  mingling  in  his  veins. 
He  loves,  in  his  own  language,  to  be 

"Where  muskets  ring  and  sabers  flash 

And  round  the  mingling  squadrons  reel! 7? 

For,  he  says, 

"  There  is  stern  pleasure  in  the  shock  of  war, 
The  wheeling  squadron  and  the  bayonet's  jar, 
When  martial  lines  their  gleaming  fronts  enlarge, 
And  the  earth  reels  beneath  their  fiery  charge ! " 

And  let  us  cite  a  few  other  examples  of  Mr.  Cutter's  sublimity : 

"  And  they  shook  the  black  and  starless  air 
With  a  wild  and  fearful  yell !  » 


"  We'll  view  the  glittering  iceberg  roll 

Where  the  ocean  is  frozen  white, 
As  we  slacken  sail  at  the  sunless  pole 
By  the  glare  of  the  northern  light." 


And  when  the  latest  trump  of  God, 
Dissolving  death's  mysterious  chain, 

Shall  rend  the  marble  and  the  sod, 
To  give  each  form  its  soul  again ; 


1840-50.]  GEORGE    W.    CUTTER.  305 

There's  not  within  this  broad  domain 

A  single  rood  of  sea  or  earth, 
But,  dyed  with  many  a  murderer's  stain, 

Will  give  a  slaughtered  Indian  birth !  " 

"  Father  of  light,  and  life,  and  form ! 

Who  dwelt  before  the  birth  of  time, 
When  chaos,  like  a  mighty  storm, 

Starless  and  boundless,  rolled  sublime." 

And  for  a  striking  instance  of  sustained  grandeur,  see  the  poem  ''Invocation."  But 
we  need  not  multiply  citations ;  the  reader  will  at  once  see  the  predominance  of  this 
element  in  all  Mr.  Cutter's  poems. 

There  is  another  trait  closely  allied  to  genuine  sublimity,  which  distinguishes  most 
of  Mr.  Cutter's  poetry,  and  that  is  perspicuity :  you  can  see  through  it  and  tell  what 
he  is  driving  at.  Now,  this  is  a  great  excellence,  and  a  rare  excellence,  too.  The 
transcendental,  the  mystic  prettytudes  of  the  modern  school  have  not  affected  him ; 
the  Tennysonophobia  has  not  reached  his  blood  at  all.  He  has  gone  to  Burns,  and 
Byron,  and  Dante,  and  the  Grand  Old  Masters.  Though  his  muse  is  unequal — 
sometimes  prosy — yet  he  is  always  intelligible ;  never  talks  in  riddles  like  an  insane 
sibyl.  His  dreamy  mystery  of  delicious  words,  so  prevalent  in  all  latter-day  poetry, 
saying  much  to  signify  nothing,  has  no  adaptation  to  Mr.  Cutter's  genius :  it  would 
have  emasculated  his  sublimity  entirely.  A  school  of  poetry  which  is  all  expression, 
he  had  not,  as  we  have  said,  the  patience  to  excel  in. 

Next  to  "The  Song  of  Steam,"  which  is  Mr.  Cutter's  masterpiece,  his  best  poem 
is  "The  Song  of  Lightning,"  composed  in  the  same  vein.  Indeed,  there  is  little  to 
choose  between  the  two ;  and  if  the  latter  had  been  published  first,  it  is  doubtful  which 
would  have  attained  the  greater  popularity. 

"  E  Pluribus  Unum,"  another  of  Mr.  Cutter's  most  popular  poems,  shows  that,  if 
he  had  given  the  study  and  labor  he  ought,  he  might  have  produced  us  the  one  great 
national  song  which  we  yet  lack. 

Mr.  Cutter  is  the  most  intensely  patriotic  poet  we  have.  The  poem  "  Never " 
might  be  profitably  read  and  reread  by  the  political  madmen  of  these  times.  And  as 
further  lessons  in  the  same  doctrine,  "Washington's  Birthday,"  and  "God  and 
Liberty." 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Cutter  is  all  patriot  and  warrior;  no,  to  be 
poet,  he  must  be  lover,  too.  These  two  stanzas  show  what  our  poet  feels  about  that 
subject : 

"  Who  hath  not  knelt  at  beauty's  feet, 

And  felt  the  very  air  more  mild, 
The  sky  more  soft,  the  earth  more  sweet, 
When  woman  sighed — when  woman  smiled  ? 

"  Who  hath  not  felt  love's  sway  sublime, 

Till  joy  could  only  speak  in  tears — 
And  tasted,  in  a  breath  of  time, 
The  rapture  of  a  thousand  years  ? " 

20 


300 


GEORGE    W.    CUTTER. 


[1840-50. 


And  for  further  limits  of  the  warrior-poet's  heart,  read  "  Love's  Remonstrance,"  "  To 

,"  "  Fanny  Lemoine,"  and  "  To  Althea." 

On  the  whole,  it  may  be  concluded,  that  Mr.  Cutter  has  the  sufficiency,  but  not  the 
efficiency,  of  a  great  poet.  The  sufficiency  is  of  nature,  but  the  efficiency,  of  art ; 
and  while  the  poet  who,  like  Mr.  Cutter,  though  instinct  with  the  one,  is  impatient  of 
the  other,  may,  in  felicitous  moments,  write  certain  immortal  verse,  yet  the  name 
which  outlasts  the  centuries — the  name  whose  letters  do  not  fall  back  into  the  alpha 
bet  for  thousands  of  years — must  have  something  more  than  a  mere  verse  or  two  to 
sustain  it, — must  have  magnified  itself  by  patience,  and  apotheosized  itself  by  the 
omnipotence  of  toil. 


SONG  OF  STEAM. 

HARNESS  me  down  with  your  iron  bands ; 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein : 
For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 
How  I  laughed  as  I  lay  conceal'd  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hour, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  might, 

And  the  pride  of  human  power. 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  upon  the  seas, 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  waiting  the  wayward  breeze  ; 
When  I  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel 

With  the  toil  which  he  daily  bore, 
As  he  feebly  turned  the  tardy  wheel, 

Or  tugged  at  the  weary  oar ; 

When  I  measured  the  panting   courser's 

speed, 

The  flight  of  the  carrier  dove, 
As  they  bore  the  law  a  king  decreed, 

Or  the  lines  of  impatient  love, 
I  could  not  but  think  how  the  world  would 

feel, 

As  these  were  outstripp'd  afar, 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing 

keel, 
Or  chain'd  to  the  flying  car. 


Ha!  ha!  ha!  they  found  me  at  last ; 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length ; 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  with  a  thunder- 
blast, 

And  laughed  in  my  iron  strength. 

0  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change 
On  the  earth  and  the  ocean  wide, 

Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 
Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 

Hurra  !  hurra !  the  waters  o'er 

The  mountain's  steep  decline ; 
Time — space — have  yielded  to  my  power ; 

The  world !  the  world  is  mine  ! 
The  rivers  the  sun  hath  earliest  blest, 

Or  those  where  his  beams  decline ; 
The  giant  streams  of  the  queenly  west, 

Or  the  orient  floods  divine ! 

The  ocean  pales  where'er  I  sweep — 

I  hear  my  strength  rejoice ; 
And  the  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower,  trembling,  at  my  voice. 

1  carry  the  wealth  and  the  lord  of  earth, 

The  thoughts  of  his  god-like  mind ; 
The  mind  lags  after  my  going  forth, 
The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless 

mine, 
My  tireless  arm  doth  play ; 


1840-50.]                                        GEORGE    W.    CUTTER.                                                   307 

Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline, 

Divided,  measured,  parcel'd  out  ; 

Or  the  dawn  of  the  glorious  day, 

Tamely  surrender'd  up  for  ever, 

I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 

To  gratify  a  soulless  route 

From  the  hidden  caves  below, 

Of  traitors  ?     Never  —  never  —  never  . 

And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 

With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

Give  up  this  land  to  lawless  might, 

To  selfish  fraud  and  villain  sway  ; 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel, 

J     ' 

Obscure  those  hopes  with  endless  night 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade  ; 

That  now  are  rising  like  the  day  : 

I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

J     7 

Write  one  more  page  of  burning  shame 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made  ; 

To  prove  the  useless,  vain  endeavor 

I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint  ; 

Our  race  from  ruin  to  reclaim, 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave, 

And  close  the  volume  ?     Never  —  never  ! 

And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print, 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

On  yonder  lone  and  lovely  steep, 

I've  no  muscle  to  weary,  no  breast  to  decay, 

The  sculptor's  art,  the  builder's  power, 
A  landmark  o'er  the  soldier's  sleep, 

No  bones  to  be  "  laid  on  the  shelf," 

r' 

Have  rear'd  a  lofty  funeral  tower  ; 

And  soon  I  intend  you  may  "  go  and  play," 

•/ 

There  it  will  stand  until  the  river 

While  I  manage  this  world  myself. 

That  rolls  beneath  shall  cease  to  flow, 

But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Aye,  till  that  hill  itself  shall  quiver 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein  ; 

With  nature's  last  convulsive  throe. 

For  I  scorn  the  power  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 

Upon  that  column's  marble  base, 

That  shaft  that  soars  into  the  sky, 

» 

There  still  is  room  enough  to  trace 

The  countless  millions  yet  to  die  ! 

And  I  would  cover  all  its  height 

NEVER!  NEVER!* 

And  breadth,  before  that  hour  of  shame, 

You  ask  me  when  I'd  rend  the  scroll 

Till  space  should  fail  whereon  to  write 

Our  fathers'  names  are  written  o'er  ; 

Even  the  initials  of  a  name. 

When  I  would  see  our  flag  unroll 

Its  mingled  stars  and  stripes  no  more; 

Dissolve  the  Union  !  mar,  remove 

When  with  a  worse  than  felon  hand 

The  last  asylum  that  is  known, 

Or  felon  counsel,  I  would  sever 

Where  patriots  find  a  brother's  love, 

The  Union  of  this  glorious  land  ; 

And  truth  may  shelter  from  a  throne  ! 

I  answer:  Never  —  never  —  never! 

Give  up  the  hopes  of  high  renown, 

The  legacy  our  fathers  will'd  ! 

Think  ye  that  I  could  brook  to  see 

Tear  our  victorious  eagles  down 

The  banner  I  have  loved  so  long, 

Before  their  mission  is  fulfilled  ! 

Borne  piecemeal  o'er  the  distant  sea  ; 

Torn,  trampled  by  a  frenzied  throng; 

Dissolve  the  Union  —  while  the  earth 

Has  yet  a  tyrant  to  be  slain  ! 

*  i;  I  may  be  asked,  as  I  have  been  asked,  when  I  am  for 
the  dissolution  of  the  Union?    I  answer:  Never  —  never  — 

Destroy  our  freedom  in  its  birth, 

never!  "  —  HENRY  CLAY. 

And  give  the  world  to  bonds  again  ! 

308 


GEORGE    W.    CUTTER. 


[184-0-50. 


Dissolve  the  Union  !     God  of  Heaven ! 

We  know  too  well  how  much  it  cost : 
A  million  bosoms  shall  be  riven 

Before  one  golden  link  is  lost. 

Xny,  spread  aloft  our  banner  folds 

High  as  the  heavens  they  resemble, 
That  every  race  this  planet  holds 

Beneath  their  shadow  may  assemble, 
And  with  the  rainbow's  dazzling  pride 

Or  clouds  that  burn  along  the  skies, 
Inscribed  upon  its  margin  wide, 

Hope,  Freedom,  Union,  Compromise. 


E  PLURIBUS  UNUM. 

THO'  many  and  bright  are  the  stars  that 

appear 

In  that  flag,  by  our  country  urifurl'd ; 
And  the  stripes  that  are  swelling  in  majesty 

there 

Like  a  rainbow  adorning  the  world  ; 
Their  light  is  unsullied,  as  those  in  the  sky, 

By  a  deed  that  our  fathers  have  done  ; 
And  they're  leagued  in  as  true  and  as  holy 

a  tie, 
In  their  motto  of  "  Many  in  one." 

From  the  hour  when  those  patriots  fear 
lessly  flung 

That  banner  of  starlight  abroad, 
Ever  true  to  themselves,  to  that  motto  they 

clung 

As  they  clung  to  the  promise  of  God : 
By  the  bayonet  traced  at  the  midnight  of 

war, 

On  the  fields  where  our  glory  was  won, 
0  perish  the  heart  or  the  hand  that  would 

mar 
Our  motto  of  "  Many  in  one." 

'Mid  the  smoke  of  the  contest — the  can 
non's  deep  roar 
How  oft  it  has  gathered  renown ; 


While  those  stars  were  reflected  in  rivers 

of  gore, 

When  the  Cross  and  the  Lion  went  down ; 
And  tho'  few  were  the  lights  in  the  gloom 

of  that  hour, 

Yet  the  hearts  that  were  striking  below 
Had  God  for  their  bulwark,  and  truth  for 

their  power, 
And  they  stopp'd  not  to  number  the  foe. 

From  where  our    Green   Mountain   tops 

blend  with  the  sky. 
And  the  giant  St.  Lawrence  is  rolled, 
To  the  waves  where  the  balmy  Hesperides 

lie, 

Like  the  dream  of  some  prophet  of  old, 
They  conquer'd ;  and  dying,  bequeath'd  to 

our  care, 

Not  this  boundless  dominion  alone, 
But  that  banner  where  loveliness  hallows 

the  air, 
And  their  motto  of  "Many  in  one." 

We  are  "Many  in  one"  while  there  glit 
ters  a  star 

In  the  blue  of  the  heavens  above ; 
And  tyrants  shall  quail  'mid  their  dungeons 

afar, 

When  they  gaze  on  that  motto  of  love. 
It  shall  gleam  o'er  the  sea,  'mid  the  bolts 

of  the  storm — 

Over  tempest  and  battle  and  wreck — 
And  flame  where  our  guns  with  their  thun 
der  grow  warm, 
'Neath  the  blood  on  the  slippery  deck. 

The  oppress'd  of  the  earth  to  that  stand 
ard  shall  fly, 

Wherever  its  folds  shall  be  spread ; 
And  the  exile  shall  feel  'tis  his  own  native  sky 
Where  its  stars  shall  float  over  his  head  ; 
And  those  stars  shall  increase  till  the  full 
ness  of  time 

Its  millions  of  cycles  has  run — 
Till  the  world  shall  have  welcomed  its  mis 
sion  sublime, 
And  the  nations  of  earth  shall  be  one. 


1840-50.] 


GEORGE 


CUTTER. 


309 


Though  the  old  Alleghany  may  tower  tc 
heaven, 

And  the  Father  of  waters  divide, 
The  links  of  our  destiny  cannot  be  riven 

While  the  truth  of  those  words  shall  abide. 

Then,  O!    let  them  glow  on  each  helmet 

and  brand, 

Tho'  our  blood  like  our  rivers  should  run : 
Divide  as  we  may  in  our  own  native  land, 

To  the  rest  of  the  world  we  are  one ! 

Then  up  with  our  flag !      Let  it  stream  on 

the  air ! 

Tho'  our  fathers  are  cold  in  their  graves, 
They  had   hands  that  could  strike — they 

had  souls  that  could  dare — 
And  their  sons  were  not  born  to  be  slaves, 
Up,  up  with   that  banner!     Where'er  it 

may  call, 

Our  millions  shall  rally  around ; 
And  a  nation  of  freemen  that  moment  shall 

fall, 

When  its  stars  shall  be  trail'd  on  the 
ground. 


BUENA  VISTA. 

BUENA  VISTA  !  thou  hast  smil'd 

Like  the  shores  of  orient  waves, 
But  now  thou  art  a  dreary  wild — 

A  fearful  waste  of  graves. 
All  blackened  is  the  verdure  there 

Where  fell  the  purple  rain ; 
The  vulture  sniffs  the  tainted  air, 

The  wolf  howls  o'er  the  slain. 

And  where  thy  hacienda  rose, 

Amidst  the  linden  leaves, 
The  weary  pilgrim  sought  repose 

Beneath  its  friendly  eaves  ; 
Where  the  aloe  and  the  orange  bloom 

With  fragrance  filled  the  air, 
The  willow  and  thy  cypress  gloom 

Now  wave  in  silence  there. 


No  more  that  hospitable  grove 

In  all  thy  vale  is  found ; 
No  voice  but  of  the  mourning  dove, 

Now  breaks  the  silence  round  ; 
The  very  roof-tree  of  the  hall 

Is  level  with  the  hearth ; 
The  fragments  of  thy  chapel  wall 

Are  strewed  upon  the  earth. 

We  saw  thee  when  the  morning  spread 

Her  purple  wings  on  high — 
Beheld  at  dawn  thy  mountains  dread, 

Like  clouds  against  the  sky; 
And  we  marked  thy  fairy  meadows, 

And  thy  streamlet's  silver  sheen, 
Beneath  their  lofty  shadows, 

Along  the  dark  ravine. 

But  ah !  we  saw  another  hue 

Spread  o'er  thy  lordly  dell, 
When  cannon  shook  thy  sky  of  blue, 

And  war's  dread  lightning  fell ; 
When  darkness  clothed  the  morning  ray, 

And  dimmed  thy  mountains  high ; 
When  the  fire  that  kindled  up  the  day 

Went  out  upon  the  sky. 

Upon  their  arms  that  weary  night 

Our  soldiery  had  lain, 
And  many  dreamed  those  visions  bright 

They  ne'er  shall  dream  again  : 
Of  maidens  of  the  snowy  brow, 

Of  sisters  pale  with  care, 
Of  wives  who  for  our  safety  bow 

Their  loveliness  in  prayer  ; 

Of  venerable  sires,  who  stand 

Beneath  the  cares  of  state ; 
The  mothers  of  our  native  land; 

Our  children's  artless  prate: 
Of  quiet  vales,  of  sacred  domes, 

Far  o'er  the  heaving  sea ; 
The  cheerful  hearts,  the  happy  homes, 

Our  own  proud  land,  of  thee ! 

But  sudden  on  each  drowsy  ear, 
O'er  thy  dark  caverns  roll'd 


310 


GEORGE    W.    CUTTER. 


[1840-50. 


The  notes  of  death  to  craven  fear — 

The  music  of  the  bold. 
The  foe  !  the  foe  !  along  thy  pass, 

His  locust  horde  appears ; 
We  saw  the  sheen  of  his  cuirass — 

The  glitter  of  his  spears. 

As  stars  that  stud  the  milky  way, 

His  glittering  lances  shine  ; 
And  the  banners  of  his  long  array, 

Were  as  the  sun's  decline. 
The  sky  grew  darker  o'er  them, 

And  murmured  low  and  dread; 
And  the  solid  earth  before  them, 

Was  clouds  beneath  their  tread. 

We  gazed  upon  the  iris  streams — 

The  stars,  whose  diamond  ray 
Upon  our  Union  banner  beams — 

Shall  they  come  down  to-day  ? 
No  !  by  our  country's  sacred  call ! 

No !  by  thy  graceful  waves ! 
No !  no !  thy  stars  shall  never  fall 

But  on  our  shroudless  graves ! 

Then  with  one  fearful,  wild  hurra, 

The  solemn  hills  ring  out; 
And  Echo,  from  her  caves  afar, 

Sent  back  the  startling  shout : 
The  foe  recoiled,  his  glittering  ranks 

O'er  all  that  vale  were  bright, 
Like  a  stream  that  floods  its  lofty  banks 

Beneath  the  starry  night. 

They  halt,  and  forth  on  foaming  steeds, 

And  banners  flowing  white  ; 
St.  Ana's  herald  forward  speeds 

A  parley  to  invite  : 
"Our  General,  in  his  meekness 

And  mercy,  hath  designed, 
In  pity  of  your  weakness, 

To  treat  you  very  kind. 

"  He  knows  how  feeble  is  your  strength — 
How  poorly  armed  ye  are  ; 

'Tis  certain  ye  must  yield  at  length, 
Or  madly  perish  there ! 


To  end  at  once  your  foolish  hopes, 
To  make  this  statement  clear, 

Know  that  three  thousand  chosen  troops 
Are  posted  in  your  rear. 

"  He  hath  four  and  twenty  cannon  here, 

And  twenty  thousand  men, 
To  pour  the  lava  tide  of  war 

Along  this  narrow  glen  : 
Then  yield  ye,  prisoners  of  his  grace, 

And  spare  the  loss  of  blood, 
Or  he'll  sweep  you  from  before  his  face, 

As  foam  before  the  flood." 

"  Here,  May,  go  thou  invite  him ; 

Ye  need  not  tarry  long ; 
Tell  him  that  I  would  fight  him 

Were  he  fifty  times  as  strong." 
Thus  answered  Rough  and  Ready  ; 

One  hurra  rent  the  sky ! 
And  our  ranks  grew  firm  and  steady 

Beneath  his  eagle  eye. 

Then  came  their  cymbal's  ringing  clash, 

Shrill  fife,  and  rolling  drum  ; 
The  opening  cannon's  thunder-crash, 

The  wildly  rending  bomb ; 
Up  rose  their  sable  flag,  and  cast 

Its  stain  upon  the  breeze, 
Like  that  which  from  the  rover's  mast 

Sheds  terror  o'er  the  seas. 

We  saw  it,  and  we  inly  swore 

By  Him  in  whom  we  trust, 
Though  red  with  our  last  drop  of  gore, 

To  trail  it  in  the  dust. 
How  well  that  promise  has  been  kept, 

Ye  who  would  seek  to  know, 
Go  ask  the  kindred  who  have  wept, 

O'er  trampled  Mexico. 

The  trumpet  sounds ;  the  foe  moves  on 

Along  the  mountain  crag ; 
Then  burst  thy  earthquake,  Washington  ! 

And  roared  thy  thunder,  Bragg  ! 


1840-50.] 


GEORGE    W .    C  U  T  T  E  II . 


311 


Then  swift  thy  wheels,  O'Brien,  came 

Along  the  deep  defile  ; 
And  soon  before  their  lightning  flame 

Lay  many  a  ghastly  pile  ! 

Then  Lincoln  of  the  fiery  glance, 

Bestrode  his  matchless  steed  ; 
And  May,  who  ever  fells  a  lance 

As  lightning  fells  a  reed ; 
And  veteran  Wool  the  heady,  fight 

As  nobly  did  sustain, 
As  if  the  glow  of  Queenstown  Height 

Had  fired  his  soul  again. 

There  Marshall  urged  his  foaming  steeds, 

With  spur  and  flowing  rein — 
And  many  a  lancer  flying  bleeds, 

And  many  bite  the  plain  ; 
And  there  brave  Mississippi  stands 

Amidst  the  sheeted  flame, 
And  rapid  fall  their  ruthless  bands, 

Before  her  deadly  aim. 

The  cloud  that  threatened  in  the  sky, 

Has  burst  upon  the  plain — 
And  channels,  that  so  late  were  dry, 

Are  swollen,  but  not  with  rain ; 
Young  Indiana  holds  the  height, 

Brave  Illinois  has  charged, 
And  Arkansas  within  the  fight 

Her  glory  has  enlarged. 

Still  downward  from  the  dizzy  height, 

Their  gleaming  masses  reel, 
A  Niagara  in  resistless  might — 

An  avalanche  of  steel ; 
Still  on  their  mighty  columns  move, 

The  plain  is  covered  o'er — 
The  sky  is  black  with  clouds  above, 

The  earth  is  red  with  gore. 

Then  gleamed  aloft  thy  polished  brand, 

O  loved  and  lost  McKee  ! 
And  we  heard  thy  steady,  clear  command, 

"Kentucky,  charge  with  me!" 


As  o'er  the  crackling  forest  spread 

Volcanic  tires  of  old, 
With  flaming  steel  and  bounding  tread, 

Our  ranks  upon  them  roll'd. 

Then  deeper  still  the  cannon  peal'd, 

And  flamed  the  musketry ; 
And  redder  blushed  the  crimson  field, 

And  darker  grew  the  day ; 
But  soon  before  our  fiery  check 

The  iron  storm  rolled  back, 
And  left,  0  God !  a  mournful  wreck 

Along  its  fearful  track ! 

With  brows  in  death  more  gloomy, 

Amidst  the  sanguine  dews, 
Lay  the  Guards  of  Montezuma, 

And  the  Knights  of  Vera  Cruz ; 
And  many  a  cloven  helmet, 

And  shattered  spear  around, 
And  drum,  and  crimsoned  bayonet, 

And  banner,  strewed  the  ground. 

Still  our  standard  in  its  glory 

Waved  o'er  the  sulphur  storm ; 
But  'neath  it,  stiff  and  gory, 

Lay  many  a  noble  form. 
Mingled  in  death's  cold  embrace 

There  friend  and  foe  appears, 
While  o'er  them  bends  full  many  a  face 

That  streams  with  burning  tears. 

Oh  God  !  who  could  but  weep  to  see 

On  the  red  and  trampled  lawn 
Thy  form,  impetuous,  brave  McKee, 

And  thine,  heroic  Vaughn, 
As  gathered  up  our  little  bands 

Their  comrades  where  they  fell, 
And  bore  along,  with  gory  hands, 

A  Lincoln,  Hardin,  Yell ! 

And  oh  !  what  language  can  impart 

The  sorrow  of  that  day — 
The  grief  that  wrung  each  manly  heart 

For  thee,  young  Henry  Clay ! 


312 


GEORGE    W. CUTTER. 


[1840-50. 


The  memory  of  that  glorious  strife 

Will  live  in  future  years, 
To  us  the  darkest  page  of  life — 

The  deepest  source  of  tears. 

We  saw  thee  when  the  countless  horde 

Closed  round  thee  from  afar, 
And  through  the  smoke  thy  gleaming 
sword 

Became  our  guiding  star ; 
We  followed  till  before  their  might 

Our  feeble  ranks  were  riven  ; 
Even  then  thy  face  was  beaming  bright 

As  if  'twere  lit  from  heaven. 

We  saw  their  steel  above  thy  head 

Flash  like  a  radiant  crown ; 
And,  like  a  bolt  by  lightning  sped, 

Thy  saber  cleave  them  down  ; 
And  where  the  fiery  tempest  pour'd 

Thy  hand  still  waved  us  on ; 
There  still  thy  trumpet  voice  was  heard; 

There  still  thy  sword  was  drawn. 

And  when  the  shout  of  victory 

Rang  in  thy  warrior  ears, 
'Twas  a  triumph  to  the  foe  to  see 

Thy  blood  upon  their  spears  ; 
But  a  mournful  shade  came  back  again 

Upon  their  features  wild, 
To  see  the  gory  heaps  of  slain 

Thy  single  arm  had  piled. 

O  Buena  Vista !  when  the  sun 

Set  o'er  the  battle  cloud, 
The  sulphur  vapors,  dark  and  dun, 

Lay  o'er  thee  like  a  shroud  j 
And  the  wounded  and  the  dying 

O'er  all  thy  hills  were  strewn, 
And  the  red  path  of  the  flying 

Was  lighted  by  the  moon. 


THE  PRESS. 

SOUL  of  the  world!  the  Press!  the  Press! 

What  wonders  hast  thou  wrought ! 
Thou  rainbow  realm  of  mental  bliss ; 

Thou  starry  sky  of  thought ! 
As  dew  unto  the  thirsty  flowers ; 

As  the  blessed  light  of  heaven ; 
And  widely  as  the  summer  showers, 

Thy  silent  aid  is  given. 

Yet  canst  thou  flame  upon  the  earth 

Like  the  dread  volcano's  glow  ; 
And  tyrants  tremble  at  thy  birth 

As  at  an  earthquake's  throe. 
Hast  thou  not  lit  the  darkest  land, 

And  broke  the  fellest  chain 
The  despot's  red  accursed  hand 

Shall  never  forge  again  ? 

Another  sun  !  thy  brightness  rose 

O'er  the  dark  benighted  world, 
And  on  thy  panic-stricken  foes 

Thy  lightning  flashes  hurled. 
Dark  superstition  crouched  where'er 

Thy  thunder  scathing  fell, 
And  the  murd'rous  bigot  quaked  with  fear, 

As  at  the  flames  of  hell. 

And  priestly  craft  and  kingly  power 

Have  striven  to  bind  thee  down ; 
But  ah,  how  low  beneath  thee  cower 

The  miter  and  the  crown ! 
Thy  nod  can  lop  the  proudest  head ; 

The  world  thy  scepter  owns  ; 
The  path  thou  dost  to  glory  tread, 

That  path  is  paved  with  thrones. 

Yet  art  thou  gentle  as  the  breeze — 

The  latest  breath  of  day ; 
But  chainless  as  the  mighty  seas, 

In  thy  resistless  sway. 
At  thy  command  the  seals  were  broke 

That  bound  the  silent  deep, 
And  liberty  and  truth  awoke 

From  centuries  of  sleep. 


1840-50.] 


GEORGE    W.    CUTTER. 


313 


Then  first  to  every  sinful  shore, 

That  man  in  darkness  trod, 
Thy  bright  and  speeding  pinions  bore 

The  beacon  words  of  God. 
The  sage's  lamp,  the  muse's  lyre, 

Thou  brought'st  o'er  ocean's  foam ; 
The  stellar  light  of  vestal  fire ; 

The  eloquence  of  Rome. 

Then  music  rose  in  Runic  chimes, 

And  the  isles  of  barbarous  seas 
First  heard  Athenia's  words  sublime — 

Thy  words,  Demosthenes ! 
And  Plato's  lore  and  Sappho's  lay, 

O'er  other  lands  were  borne, 
Where  late  was  heard  the  wild  foray, 

And  savage  hunter's  horn. 

Thou  flag  of  truth !  thy  folds  have  stream'c 

O'er  many  a  field  of  blood ; 
And  o'er  the  wreck  of  empires  gleamed 

Like  the  rainbow  o'er  the  flood ; 
The  patriot's  eye  still  turns  to  thee, 

And  hails  thee  from  afar, 
As  the  wanderer  of  the  trackless  sea 

Hath  hailed  his  guiding  star. 

Thou  torch  of  hope,  thy  blaze  shall  burn 

O'er  millions  yet  to  be, 
And  flame  above  the  funeral  urn 

Of  crimson  monarchy ! 
The  world  already  hails  thy  light, 

As  the  Chaldeans  of  old, 
When  flashing  o'er  the  clouds  of  night 

The  star  of  Bethlehem  rolled. 

Like  letters  on  the  Persian's  wall, 

But  plainer  to  be  read, 
Is  thy  ever  bright  and  burning  scroll, 

That  tyrants  mark  with  dread. 
O'er  scepter,  throne  and  diadem 

Hangs  thy  portentous  glare — 
Like  the  sword  o'er  lost  Jerusalem, 

Suspended  in  the  air. 

While  to  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall, 
And  to  the  cottage  hearth, 


Thou  bring'st  a  daily  festival 
Of  nameless,  priceless  worth  ; 

Thou  lightest  up  the  pallid  cheek 
Of  the  deserted  poor, 

And  to  the  captive,  worn  and  weak, 
Openest  the  prison  door. 

O!  ever  in  thy  columns  bright, 

Let  truth  and  virtue  blend ! 
Be  ever,  ever  in  the  right ! 

Be  ever  labor's  friend. 
His  strong  and  honest  arm  shall  be 

Thy  bulwark  in  distress  ; 
God  bless  the  land  of  liberty ! 

God  save  our  country's  Press! 


SONG  OF  LIGHTNING. 

AWAY  !  away  !  through  the  sightless  air 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread ! 
For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread  ! 
Aye,  rear  it  up  on  its  million  piers — 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around — 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

I'll  clear  at  a  single  bound ! 

Iho'  I  cannot  toil,  like  the  groaning  slave 
Ye  have  fetter'd  with  iron  skill 

To  ferry  you  over  the  boundless  wave, 
Or  grind  in  the  noisy  mill, 

Let  him  sing  his  giant  strength  and  speed ! 
Why,  a  single  shaft  of  mine 

rVould  give  that  monster  a  flight  indeed, 
.To  the  depths  of  the  ocean's  brine ! 

No  !  no  !     I'm  the  spirit  of  light  and  love ! 

To  my  unseen  hand  'tis  given 
To  pencil  the  ambient  clouds  above 

And  polish  the  stars  of  heaven ! 

scatter  the  golden  rays  of  fire 

On  the  horizon  far  below, 
A.nd  deck  the  sky  where  storms  expire 

With  my  red  and  dazzling  glow. 


314                                                  GEORGE    W.    CUTTER.                                         [1840-50. 

The  deepest  recesses  of  earth  are  mine  ; 

Where  the  prophet  read  the  tyrant's  fall, 

I  traverse  its  silent  core  ; 

Were  traced  by  my  burning  hand. 

Around  me  the  starry  diamonds  shine, 

And  oft  in  fire  have  I  wrote,  since  then, 

And  the  sparkling  fields  of  ore  ; 

What  angry  Heaven  decreed  ; 

And  oft  I  leap  from  my  throne  on  high 

But  the  sealed  eyes  of  sinful  men 

To  the  depths  of  the  ocean  caves, 

Were  all  too  blind  to  read. 

Where  the  fadeless  forests  of  coral  lie 

Far  under  the  world  of  waves. 

At  length  the  hour  of  light  is  here, 

And  kings  no  more  shall  bind, 

My  being  is  like  a  lovely  thought 

Nor  bigots  crush  with  craven  fear 

That  dwells  in  a  sinless  breast  ; 

The  forward  march  of  mind. 

A  tone  of  music  that  ne'er  was  caught  ; 

The  words  of  Truth  and  Freedom's  rays 

A  word  that  was  ne'er  expressed  ! 

Are  from  my  pinions  hurl'd  ; 

I  dwell  in  the  bright  and  burnish'd  halls 

And  soon  the  light  of  better  days 

Where  the  fountains  of  sunlight  play, 

Shall  rise  upon  the  world. 

Where  the  curtain  of  gold  and  opal  falls 

O'er  the  scenes  of  the  dying  day. 

But  away  !  away  !  through  the  sightless  air 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread  ! 

With  a  glance  I  cleave  the  sky  in  twain  ; 

For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

I  light  it  with  a  glare, 

•/ 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread  ! 

When  fall  the  boding  drops  of  rain 

J                            J 

Aye!  rear  it  up  on  its  thousand  piers  — 

Through  the  darkly-curtain'd  air  ! 

•/I                                                             i 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around  — 

The  rock-built  towers,  the  turrets  gray, 
The  piles  of  a  thousand  years, 

And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 
I'll  clear  at  a  single  bound. 

Have  not  the  strength  of  potter's  clay 

Beneath  my  glittering  spears. 

From  the  Alps'  or  the  Andes'  highest  crag, 

—  •— 

From  the  peaks  of  eternal  snow, 

The  blazing  folds  of  my  fiery  flag 

Illumine  the  world  below. 

TO  ALTHEA.* 

The  earthquake  heralds  my  coming  power, 

"  FORGET  me  not!"  as  soon  the  sun 

The  avalanche  bounds  away, 

At  morning  shall  forget  to  rise, 

And  howling  storms  at  midnight's  hour 

The  streams  forget  their  course  to  run, 

Proclaim  my  kingly  sway. 

The  moon  forget  the  starry  skies  ; 

Ye  tremble  when  my  legions  come  — 

As  soon  the  flowers  forget  to  blow, 

J           & 

When  my  quivering  sword  leaps  out 
O'er  the  hills  that  echo  my  thunder  drum 

The  magnet  shall  forget  the  pole, 
The  hills  forget  the  summer's  glow, 

And  rend  with  my  joyous  shout. 

The  ocean  waves  forget  to  roll. 

Ye  quail  on  the  land,  or  upon  the  seas 
Yi-  -tand  in  your  fear  aghast, 
To  see  me  burn  the  stalworth  trees, 
Or  shiver  the  stately  mast. 

'Forget  me  not!"  O  it  were  well, 
Thou  gentle  one,  perchance  for  me, 
[f  I  could  break  the  pleasing  spell 
That  binds  my  every  thought  to  thee  ; 

The  hieroglyphs  on  the  Persian  wall  — 

The  letters  of  high  command  — 

*  On  being  presented  by  her  with  a  flower  commonly 
called  the  >'  Forget-Me-Not." 

1840-50.] 


GEORGE 


CUTTER. 


315 


'Twere  well  if  from  my  aching  heart 
The  memory  of  thy  smiles  would  flee, 

As  sun-tints  from  the  sky  depart, 
As  ripples  from  the  halcyon  sea. 

For  while  my  breast  with  anxious  art, 

Has  treasured  every  look  of  thine, 
How  can  I  hope  thy  gentle  heart 

Will  e'er  retain  one  thought  of  mine ; 
Too  long,  alas!  the  seat  of  gloom, 

Of  silent  pain  and  wasting  care ! 
I  scarce  could  wish  thy  girlish  bloom 

Its  dark  and  lonely  thoughts  to  share. 

And  yet  this  little  purple  flower 

Is  far  more  welcome  to  my  eyes, 
More  priceless  than  the  richest  dower 

That  fortune's  favored  minions  prize ; 
And  0  if  but  one  earnest  prayer 

Were  granted  to  my  humble  lot, 
I'd  send  thee  one  as  fresh  and  fair, 

To  say  to  thee  "  Forget  me  not ! " 

I'd  have  from  art  its  beauteous  mould 

With  every  costly  gem  arrayed ; 
The  stem  should  be  of  virgin  gold, 

The  leaves  of  rarest  emerald  made, 
That  it  might  hail  thy  sunny  gaze 

Through  life,  in  hours  of  gloom  or  glee, 
And  tell  thee  with  its  fadeless  blaze 

"  Forget  me  not,"  eternally. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  LYRE. 

ONE  strain,  my  harp,  and  then  farewell 

For  ever  to  thy  sounding  chords ! 
A  sigh  perchance  this  heart  may  swell, 

Pain'd  by  our  final  parting  words ; 
This  brow  may  own  a  shade  of  care, 

This  changing  cheek  my  grief  betray, 
When  on  the  passing  breeze  afar 

I  hear  thy  latest  tones  decay ; 


For  oh,  I  deem'd  not  when  my  touch 

Of  late  upon  thy  strings  was  lain, 
Thy  tones  beneath  my  wilder'd  clutch 

So  soon  should  turn  to  throbs  of  pain — 
That  thou  shouldst  be  as  now  thou  art, 

Companion  of  my  early  years, 
Discordant  as  my  breaking  heart, 

And  wet  with  my  descending  tears. 

Alas  for  pleasure's  rosy  hours ! 

Alas  that  time  and  grief  and  care, 
So  soon  should  teach  these  hearts  of  ours 

How  fleeting  and  how  false  they  are ! 
The  soft  and  fleecy  clouds  of  night 

That  float  around  the  silver  moon, 
The  rainbow's  arch  of  painted  light, 

Survive  their  most  enduring  boon. 

As  insubstantial  as  the  hue 

Of  shadows  o'er  a  flowing  stream, 
The  evanscent  drops  of  dew, 

The  fleeting  music  of  a  dream : 
And  what  the  spell  that  can  recall 

One  precious  hour  of  joy  that's  fled  ? 
As  soon  beneath  the  sable  pall 

Ye  may  reanimate  the  dead. 

But  let  that  pass,  it  boots  not  now, 

'Tis  for  the  feeble  to  complain, 
And  manhood  should  in  silence  bow 

To  whatsoe'er  the  fates  ordain, 
Should  bear  him  like  the  stately  oak 

That  does  in  storms  but  stronger  grow, 
And  e'en  survive  the  lightning's  stroke 

That  lays  his  lofty  honors  low. 

What  tho'  the  false  delusive  glare, 

The  phantom  hopes  of  youth  decline, 
The  strength  that's  yielded  by  despair, 

The  might  of  sorrow  still  is  mine ; 
And  if  thy  wild  untutor'd  strain 

Has  made  one  bosom  happier  swell, 
Thy  chords  were  not  invoked  in  vain — 

My  gentle  harp,  farewell,  farewell ! 


HENRY   W.  ELLSWORTH. 


HENRY  WILLIAM  ELLSWORTH,  a  grandson  of  Oliver  Ellsworth,  formerly  Chief  Jus 
tice  of  the  Federal  Supreme  Court,  and  son  of  Henry  L.  Ellsworth,  late  Commissioner 
of  Patents  of  the  United  States,  was  born  at  Windsor,  Connecticut,  in  the  year  1814. 
He  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1834,  and  removed  to  Indiana  in  1835,  to  reside 
permanently.  In  1844  he  was  appointed  by  President  Polk  Minister  of  the  United 
States  to  Sweden  and  Norway,  and  remained  in  Europe  from  the  fall  of  1845  to 
1850,  discharging  the  duties  of  the  mission.  On  his  return  from  Europe,  Mr.  Ells 
worth  was  retained  by  Benjamin  F.  Morse  as  leading  counsel  in  various  suits,  involv 
ing  the  validity  of  his  telegraph  patents.  During  his  residence  in  Europe,  Mr.  E. 
was  a  constant  contributor  to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  While  in  Sweden,  and 
from  his  family,  he  wrote  the  lines,  "To  an  Absent  Wife,"  which  have  been  widely  cir 
culated,  both  in  this  country  and  in  England.  His  "  Cholera  King,"  which  has  enjoyed 
almost  equal  popularity,  was  written  at  a  later  date,  and  first  appeared  in  the  Knick 
erbocker.  Mr.  Ellsworth  is  now  a  citizen  of  Indianapolis. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE. 

SHALL  we  meet  again  together 

As  in  happy  days  of  old, — 
Where  around  our  winter  fireside, 

Many  merry  tales  were  told  ? 
Where  the  yule-log  sparkled  brightly, 

And  still  brighter  every  eye, 
As  we  recked  not  of  the  tempest, 

In  its  wild  wrath  shouting  by  ? 

Shall  we  meet  again  together, 

On  the  green  and  sunny  plain, 
With  the  tall  grass  round  us  waving, 

And  the  billowy  ripened  grain, — 
Where  we  scared  the  timid  rabbit, 

And  the  speckled  prairie  hen, — 
From  the  morning  till  the  twilight, 

Shall  we  wander  there  again  ? 

Shall  we  hear  once  more  together 
The  soft  ripple  of  that  stream, 


Whose  tones  were  wont  to  gladden  us 
Like  the  music  of  a  dream  ? 

Where,  in  forest  paths,  we  lingered, 
Or  with  arm  in  arm  stole  on, 

Till  the  silver  stars  had  faded, 

And  the  witching  moonlight  gone  ? 

Shall  we  meet  again,  sweet  mother, 

With  that  dear  one  by  our  side, 
Whom  our  hearts  have  loved  to  cherish, 

In  the  fullness  of  their  pride; 
Whom  we  oft  have  watched  together, 

In  each  sunny  hour  of  glee, 
While  we  blessed  the  glorious  Giver, 

That  such  gentle  ones  could  be? 

Shall  we  weep  again  together, 
For  the  loved  and  early  gone, 

As  with  noiseless  step  we  linger, 

Near  each  dear,  sepulchral  stone ; — 

Watching  long  till  evening  draweth 
Her  dark  pall  around  their  bed, 


(  310  ) 


1840-50.] 


HENRY 


ELLSWORTH. 


317 


And,  with  folded  hands  above  them, 
Breathe  our  blessings  on  the  dead  ? 

Shall  we  meet  yet,  love,  together, 

In  that  spirit  clime  on  high, 
"Where  the  blessed  of  earth  are  gathered 

And  the  heart's  best  treasures  lie  ; — 
Where  each  deathless  soul  retaineth 

All  it  knew  or  loved  of  yore ; — 
Shall  we — father,  son  and  mother — 

Meet  above  to  part  no  more  ? 


THE  CHOLERA  KING. 

HE  cometh,  a  conqueror  proud  and  strong ! 

At  the  head  of  a  mighty  band 
Of  the  countless  dead,  as  he  passed  along, 

That  he  slew  with  his  red  right  hand ; 
And  over  the  mountains,  or  down  the  vale, 

As  his  shadowy  train  sweeps  on, 
There  stealeth  a  lengthened  note  of  wail, 

For  the  loved  and  early  gone ! 

He  cometh !  the  sparkling  eye  grows  dim, 

And  heavily  draws  the  breath 
Of  the  trembler,  who  whispers  low  of  him, 

And  his  standard-bearer,  death, — 
He  striketh  the  rich  man  down  from  power, 

And  wasteth  the  student  pale, 
Nor  'scapes  him  the  maid  in  her  latticed 
bower, 

Nor  the  warrior  armed  in  mail ! 

He  cometh !  through  ranks  of  steel-clad 
men 

To  the  heart  of  the  warrior  band ; 
Ye  may  count  where  his  conquering  step 
hath  been 

By  the  spear  in  each  nerveless  hand. 
Wild  shouteth  he  where  on  the  battle  plain, 

By  the  dead  are  the  living  hid, 
As  he  buildeth  up  from  the  foemen  slain 

His  skeleton  pyramid ! 


There  stealeth  'neath  yonder  turret's  height, 

A  lover,  with  song  and  lute, 
Nor  knoweth  the  lips  of  his  lady  bright 

Are  pale,  and  her  soft  voice  mute, — 
For  he  dreameth  not,  when  no  star  is  dim, 

Nor  cloud  in  the  summer  sky, 
That  she,  who  from  childhood  loved  him, 

Hath  laid  her  down  to  die ! 

She  watcheth  !  a  fond  young  mother  dear! 

While  her  heart  beats  high  with  pride, 
How  she  best  to  the  good  of  life  may  rear, 

The  dear  one  by  her  side ; 
With   a   fervent   prayer,  and  a  love-kiss 
warm, 

She  hath  sunk  to  a  dreamy  rest, 
Unconscious  all  of  the  death-cold  form 

That  she  claspeth  to  her  breast ! 

Sail  ho  !  for  the  ship  that  tireless  flies, 

While  the  mad  waves  leap  around, 
As  she  spreadeth  her  wings  for  the  native 
skies, 

Of  the  wanderers  homeward  bound, — 
Away !  through  the  trackless  waters  blue ; 

Yet  ere  half  her  course  is  done, 
From  the  wasted  ranks  of  her  merry  crew 

There  standeth  only  one  ! 

All  hushed  is  the  city's  busy  throng, 

As  it  sleeps  in  the  fold  of  death, 
Like  the   desert   o'er  which  hath  passed 

along 

The  pestilent  Simoom's  breath  ; 
All  hushed:    save  the    chill  and    stifling 

heart 

Of  some  trembling  passer-by, 
As  he  looketh  askance  on  the  dead-man's 

cart, 
Where  it  waiteth  the  next  to  die  I 

The    fire    hath    died    from    the    cottage 

hearth, — 

The  plow  on  the  unturned  plain 
Stands  still,  while  unreaped  to  the  mother 

earth, 
Down  droppeth  the  golden  grain  I 


318 


HENRY    W.    ELLSWORTH. 


[1840-50. 


Of    the    loving   and  loved  that  gatherec 

there, 

Each  form  to  the  dead  hath  gone, 
Save.-  the  dog  that  howls   to  the  midnight 

air, 
By  the  side  of  yon  cold  white  stone ! 

He    cometh !     He    cometh !    no     human 
power 

From  his  advent  dread  can  flee, — 
Nor  knoweth  one  human  heart  the  hour 

When  the  tyrant  his  guest  shall  be  ; 
Or  whether  at  flush  of  the  rosy  dawn, 

Or  at  noontide's  fervent  heat, 
Or  at  night,  when  with  robes  of  darkness 
on, 

He  treadeth  with  stealthy  feet ! 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

NEW  England  !  New  England  ! 

How  beautiful  thy  vales, 
Where  summer  flowers  are  breathing  forth 

Their  sweets  of  summer  gales  ;  — 
Where  soft  the  wild  note  breuketh 

From  out  each  dewy  grove, 
Where  lone  the  night  bird  chanteth 

Her  even-lay  of  love  ! 

Oh  !  far  beyond  the  surges  wild 

That  beat  upon  thy  shore, 
Hath  swept  the  paean  of  thy  fame, 

Old  Ocean's  vastness  o'er  ;  — 
And  echoes  far,  the  triumph  song, 

Of  that  true-hearted  band, 
Who  gave  their  homes,  their  all,  for  God, 

And  thee,  my  fatherland  ! 


jestic  are  thy  mountains  green, 

Uptowering  to  the  sky  ; 
Stern  monuments  that  God's  own  hand 

For  aye  hath  piled  on  high  ! 
Forever  may  they  guard  thee, 

As  now  the  blessed,  the  free  ; 


Bright  Eden-land  of  nations, 
Proud  home  of  Liberty ! 

And  beautiful  the  silver  streams 

That  ripple  o'er  thy  breast, 
In  thousand  forms  meandering, 

To  seek  their  ocean  rest ;  — 
Aye,  beautiful !  and  may  they  twine 

Forever  bright  as  now, 
A  fadeless  wreath  of  luster  round 

Thy  clear,  unruffled  brow  ! 

We  love  them,  for  their  legends  tell 

Of  deeds  and  daring  true, 
How,  oft  the  hunter  paddled  there, 

War-led,  his  dark  canoe  ; 
And  oft  beside  their  flowery  banks, 

'Mid  scenes  that  linger  yet, 
The  Indian  maid — sweet  nature's  child  — 

Her  Indian  lover  met ! 

And  these  are  gone  !  but  fairer  forms 

Now  roam  beneath  thy  skies, 
Whose  priceless  worth,  and  trusting  love, 

Gleam  forth  from  laughing  eyes  ; 
Thy    daughters !    like    sweet   flowers    of 
spring, 

Bloom  'neath  thy  fostering  care, 
Through  coming  time,  as  now,  to  be 

Thy  treasures,  rich  and  rare  ! 

Thy  sons !  what  clime  that  knoweth  not 

The  noble  and  the  brave  ? 
The  tamers  of  the  stubborn  earth, 

The  rovers  of  the  wave  ? 
Aye!  dearly  do  they  love  the  land 

Their  fathers  died  to  gain  ; 
Their  pride,  its  glory  fresh  to  keep, 

Its  honor  bright  from  stain  ! 

Sew  England !  New  England ! 

God's  blessings  on  thee  be ; 
And  ever  on  those  cherished  ones 

Fond  memory  links  with  thee! 
From  this  fair  land,  whose  spreading  skies 

Like  thine  a  glory  wear, 
Vly  spirit  turns  to  breathe  for  thee 

A  blessing  and  a  prayer ! 


CATHERINE    A.  WARFIELD. 


CATHERINE  ANN  WARE  was  born  at  Washington,.  Mississippi,  in  the  year  1817. 
Her  father  was  Nathaniel  A.  Ware,  of  that  State,  a  man  of  wealth,  and  a  political 
economist  of  note  in  his  day,  whose  "  Views  of  the  Federal  Constitution "  of  the 
United  States  is  a  work  of  ability  still  extant.  His  wife  was  Sarah  Percy,  through 
whom,  in  Mrs.  Warfield's  veins,  mingle  Northumberland  currents  that  have  come 
down  from  the 

"  Home  of  Percy's  high-born  race." 

Mrs.  Warfield's  education  was  commenced  at  her  mother's  knee,  and  finished  at  one 
of  the  best  academies  in  Philadelphia.  Her  poetic  talent  first  manifested  itself  at 
Cincinnati,  soon  after  leaving  school.  At  this  early  period  she  evinced  great  mastery 
of  verse,  and  an  aptness  and  force  of  epigrammatic  satire,  which  she  has  had  the  good 
taste  not  to  cultivate. 

Miss  Ware  was  married  at  Cincinnati,  in  the  year  1833,  to  Elisha  Warfield,  jr., 
of  Lexington,  Kentucky.  After  several  years  spent  in  foreign  travel,  and  a  some 
what  protracted  residence  in  Paris,  the  young  couple  returned  to  this  country,  and, 
after  living  a  year  or  two  in  Texas  (at  Galveston),  settled  at  Lexington,  where  Mrs. 
W.  has  till  recently  been  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  wealthy,  refined,  and 
intellectual  circles  of  that  section  of  Kentucky.  A  couple  of  years  ago,  Mr.  War- 
field  purchased  a  handsome  country-seat  on  one  of  the  pleasant  undulations  of  Pewee 
Valley — a  locality  about  sixteen  miles  from  the  city  of  Louisville,  on  the  Louisville 
and  Lexington  Railroad,  where  the  family  have  since  resided,  dispensing  the  charms 
of  a  refined  and  liberal  hospitality  to  an  attached  circle  of  artists,  poets,  editors,  and 
other  persons  of  culture.  Among  her  immediate  neighbors  are  Edwin  Bryant, 
one  of  the  earliest  American  emigrants  to  California,  and  the  first  Alcalde  of  San 
Francisco;  Noble  Butler,  the  accomplished  scholar,  critic,  grammarian,  and  teacher; 
William  D.  Gallagher,  and  others  of  like  tastes,  cultivation,  and  pursuits. 

About  eighteen  years  ago,  a  volume,  entitled  "  Poems  by  two  Sisters  of  the  West," 
was  published  in  the  city  of  New  York,  which  deservedly  attracted  much  attention. 
Among  competent  critics  who  bestowed  praise  upon  various  portions  of  the  collection, 
was  Wm.  C.  Bryant,  whose  taste  or  judgment  no  one  will  dispute.  Two  years  after 
ward  a  new  edition  of  the  volume  was  called  for,  which  was  issued  from  the  Cincin 
nati  press.  The  two  sisters  were  Mrs.  Warfield,  and  Mrs.  Eleanor  Percy  Lee — a 
notice  of  whom  is  hereafter  given.  A  second  volume  of  their  poems  was  publishi-d 
in  1846,  which,  with  all  the  excellences  of  the  first,  has  more  maturity  of  thought. 
and  evinces  a  judgment  still  ripening  in  the  light  of  experience  and  observation. 
Mrs.  Warfield  is  also  a  writer  of  elegant  and  vigorous  prose,  and  could  at  will  secure 
an  honorable  place  among  the  essayists  and  novelists  of  our  country. 

(319) 


320 


CATHERINE    A.    WARFIELD. 


[1840-50. 


A  friend,  personally  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Warfield,  to  whom  we  wrote  for  infor 
mation  concerning  her  literary  efforts  and  accomplishments,  concludes  his  reply  with 
the  following  remarks,  which  both  the  writer  and  the  subject  of  them  must  excuse  us 
for  incorporating  in  our  sketch  in  full : 

Although  the  larger  portion  of  the  two  volumes  published  jointly  by  the  two  sisters,  belonged  to 
Mrs.  Wartield,  her  best  writings  have  not  yet  appeared  in  book  form.  Within  the  last  two  years, 
at  the  special  request  of  the  editor  of  the  Louisville  Journal,  she  has  published  in  the  columns  of 
Unit  widely-known  and  ably-conducted  paper,  quite  a  number  of  poems,  manifesting  a  higher  art, 
pi-rvaded  by  a  loftier  spirit  and  moved  by  a  deeper  feeling,  than  most  of  her  previous  productions. 
One  of  the  pieces  of  this  period  is  the  "  Atlantic  Telegraph,'7  which  has  been  extensively  republished 
and  justly  admired;  another,  the  graceful  and  beautiful  verses  entitled  "  Thunder  in  Spring,"  and  a 
third,  a  touching  monody  on  the  death  of  a  youthful  and  beautiful  relative.  But  with  the  privilege 
of  an  old  friend,  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  looking  into  the  escritoire  of  Mrs.  W.,  and  it  affords  me 
great  pleasure  to  say  that  the  best  productions  of  all  which  have  yet  come  from  her  pen,  are  still  in 
manuscript.  The  poems  that  speak  most  of  her  inner  life,  and  do  the  most  credit  to  her  genius, 
are  yet  held  sacred  from  the  intrusion  of  the  common  eye.  They  breathe  the  spirit  of  a  subdued 
will,  a  chastened  imagination,  and  a  beautiful  repose.  They  throb  with  feeling,  arouse  with 
energy,  swell  with  emotion,  and  subdue  by  their  pathos. 

A  poem  of  much  length,  upon  which  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  Mrs.  Warfield  has 
been  engaged  at  times  for  the  past  two  or  three  years,  will,  when  published,  establish  her  reputa 
tion  among  the  writers  of  our  country  who  stand  highest  in  the  department  of  poetry.  It  is  a  well- 
constructed  story,  of  a  simple  but  effective  plot,  filled  with  passages  of  strength  and  beauty,  re 
markable  for  its  condensed  vigor,  and  giving  ample  evidence  of  the  possession  by  its  author  of 
dramatic  talent,  and  sustaining  power. 


THE  RETURN  TO  ASHLAND. 

UNFOLD  the  silent  gates, 

The  Lord  of  Ashland  waits 
Patient  without,  to  enter  his  domain ; 

Tell  not  who  sits  within, 

"With  sad  and  stricken  mien, 
That  he,  her  soul's  beloved,  hath  come  again. 

Long  hath  she  watched  for  him, 

Till  hope  itself  grew  dim, 
And  sorrow  ceased  to  wake  the  frequent 
tears ; 

But  let  these  griefs  depart, 

Like  shadows  from  her  heart — 
Tell  her,  the  long  expected  host  is  here. 

He  comes — but  not  alone, 
For  darkly  pressing  on, 


The  people  pass  beneath  his  bending  trees, 

Not  as  they  came  of  yore, 

When  torch  and  banner  bore 
Their  part  amid  exulting  harmonies. 

But  still  and  sad  they  sweep 

Amid  the  foliage  deep, 
Even  to  the  threshold  of  that  mansion  gray, 

Whither  from  life's  unrest, 

As  an  Eagle  seeks  his  nest, 
It  ever  was  his  wont  to  flee  away. 

And  he  once  more  hath  come 

To  that  accustomed  home, 
To  taste  a  calm  life  never  offered  yet ; 

To  know  a  rest  so  deep, 

That  they  who  watch  and  weep, 
In  this  vain  world  may  well  its  peace  regret. 

O  never  more  his  hall 
Shall  echo  to  the  fall 


1840-50.] 


CATHERINE    A.    WARFIELD. 


321 


Of  that  proud  step  which  well   his   sou 
expressed ; 

No  more  with  outstretched  hand, 

There  shall  the  master  stand 
To  welcome  coming,  speed  departing  gues 

No  more  the  singing  tone 

Shall  fill  that  mansion  lone, 
Of  that  rich  voice  that  stirred  the  inmos 
soul, 

And  gave  the  words  a  power 

They  knew  not  till  that  hour : 
As  music  strengthened  by  the  organ's  roll 

No  more  !  the  soul  is  stirred 

By  that  funereal  word, 
As  with  a  grief  it  scarce  hath  strength  to 
bear ; 

O  God,  if  this  were  all, 

The  coffin  and  the  pall 
Might  seem  indeed  the  symbols  of  despair 


If  of  the  great  and  just 

This  silent,  mouldering  dust 
Were   all    remaining,   what   were    being 
worth  ? 

To-day,  a  shining  star 

Men  worship  from  afar : 
To-morrow,  mingling  with  the  clods  of  earth. 

But  Thou  hast  deigned  to  shed 

On  the  path  that  mortals  tread, 
A  ray  of  glory  from  Thy  home  divine, 

And  teachest  those  who  crave 

The  life  beyond  the  grave, 
This  very  yearning  marks  them  truly  Thine. 

Within  his  country's  page, 

The  patriot  and  the  sage 
Shall  dwell  enshrined  while  memory  holds 
her  throne ; 

While  of  his  country's  fame 

There  resteth  but  a  name, 
His  shall  be  treasured  as  her  noblest  song. 


THE  ATLANTIC  TELEGRAPH. 

IN  the  gray  depths  of  the  silent  sea 
Where  twilight  reigns  over  mystery  ; 
Where   no  signs  prevail  of  the  tempest's 

mood, 

And  no  forms  of  the  upper  life  intrude ; 
Where  the  wrecks  of  the  elder  world  are 

laid 

In  a  realm  of  stillness,  of  death,  of  shade, 
And  the  mournful  forests  of  coral  grow — 
They  have  chained  the  lightning  and  laid 

it  low! 

Life  of  the  universe !     Spirit  of  fire! 
From  that  single  chord  of  thy  living  lyre, 
Sweep  us  a  strain  of  the  depths  profound — 
Teach   us    the   mysteries   that   gird   thee 

'round — 
Make    us    to  know  through  what  realms 

unsought 

By  the  mariner's  eye,  or  the  poet's  thought, 
Thy  thrilling  impulse  flows  free  and  strong, 
As  the  flash  of  soul,  or  the  stream  of  song! 

Say,  does  the  path  of  the  lightning  lie 
Through  desolate  cities  still  fair  and  high? 
With   their  massive  marbles  and  ancient 

state — 
Though  the  sea-snake  coils  at  the  temple's 

gate  ? 

)r  lays  his  length  in  the  streets  of  sand, 
IVhere  rolled  the  chariot,  or  marched  the 

band — 

Or  where,  oppressed  by  his  martial  load, 
?he  monstrous  step  of  the  mammoth  strode? 

)oth  he  raise  for  a  moment  his  crested  head 
As  the  thrill  of  thought  is  above  him  sped  ? 
Lnd  feel  the  shock — through  every  fold — 
i1  i  ring  his  blood — from  its  torpor  cold  ? 
?ill  he  learns  to  woo  the  mystic  chain 
^hat  stirs  new  life  in  each  sluggish  vein 
ind  seeks  its  warmth,  as  it  works  its  task, 
LS  a  desert  serpent  in  sun  may  bask  ? 


21 


322 


CATHERINE    A.    WAR  FIELD. 


[1840-50. 


Doth  that  slender  cord,  as  it  threads  the 

waves, 

Stretch  past  the  portals  of  mighty  caves  ? 
Places  of  splendor  where  jewels  gleam 
In  the  glare  of  the  blue  phosphoric  stream 
Shed  by  those  living  lamps  that  grow 
In  the  lofty  roof   and    the   walls  of  snow ; 
And  where  the  kings  of  the  weltering  brine 
Hold   their  wild   revels — by    throne    and 

shrine. 

We  follow  fast  on  thy  path  of  fire 
With  a  dreaming  fancy — oh,  mystic  wire ; 
We  see  the  mountains  and  valleys  gray 
With  plants  that  know  not  the  upper  day — 
We  see  the  fissures  that  grimly  lie 
Where  the  wounded  whale  dives  down  to 

die — 
And  more!    we  see,  what  hath  stirred  us 

more, 
The  wrecks  that  checker  the  ocean  floor — 

Ships  that  full  freighted  with  life  and  gold, 
Suddenly  sank  to  a  doom  untold ; 
Galleons  that  floating  from  haughty  Spain, 
Reached  not   the  haven  of  home  again ; 
Martial  vessels  of  power  and  pride 
Shattered  and  mounted  and  carnage  dyed; 
And  giant  steamers  that  stemmed  the  seas 
Whose  fate  is  with  ocean  mysteries. 

We  know  that  our  country's  flag  is  there, 
And  many  a  form  of  her  brave  and  fair — 
Dost  thou  keep  them  safely,  oh!  lower  deep, 
In  their  changeless  beauty  and  solemn  sleep: 
Or  are  they  given  to  the  dark  decay 
Of  the  charnel-house  and  the  bed  of  clay  ? 
'Tis  a  holy  charge  that  thou  hast  in  trust — 
Our  stately  vessels — our  sacred  dust ! 

Full  many  a  message  of  haste  and  love 
Shall  quiver  the  broken  mast  above, 
Or  flash  by  those  shapes,  erect  and  pale, 
With  loaded  feet  and  with  shrouding  sail, 
That  "stand  and  wait"  without  hope  or 

dread, 
For  the  great  sea  to  give  up  its  dead — 


When  those  long  parted  by  land  and  wave 
Shall  meet  in  the  glory  beyond  the  grave. 

Sad  thoughts  are  these  that  will  have  their 

hour, 

Let  them  pass  in  the  tide  of  exulting  power! 
In  the   stream  of  praise  and  the  anthem 

free, 

To  the  mighty  Maker  of  earth  and  sea, 
Who  hath  granted  skill  to  a  finite  race, 
To  conquer  time  and  to  cancel  space — 
And  through  a  human  hand  hath  thrown 
His  grappling-iron  from  zone  to  zone. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  TOMB. 

WHEN  earth's  pervading  vanity, 

Its  gloss  of  empty  state, 
Fade  from  my  darkened  heart  and  eye, 

And  leave  me  desolate  ; 
When  phantom-like  the  dancers  pass 

Within  the  echoing  hall, 
And  darkness  o'er  the  sparkling  mass 

Seems  gathering  like  a  pall ; 

When  on  the  flatterer's  honied  lip 

The  words  seem  changed  to  sneers, 
And  darkly  o'er  my  spirit  sweep 

The  memories  of  years ; 
When  seems  the  present  but  a  dream, 

A  mirage  vain  to  be, 
Then  breaks  my  soul  its  bondage  dim, 

And  lives  again  in  thee. 

In  thee,  the  lost,  the  beautiful, 

The  true,  the  proud,  the  just; 
In  thee,  whose  ear  is  cold  and  dull, 

Whose  stately  form  is  dust ; 
Aye !  darkly,  coldly,  to  my  heart, 

Where  anguish  inly  yearns, 
The  consciousness  of  what  thou  wert, 

Of  what  thou  art>  returns ! 


1840-50.] 


CATHERINE    A.    WARFIELD. 


323 


Yet  'twas  for  these — earth's  vanity, 

The  word  of  hollow  praise, 
The  flatterer's  fixed  and  fawning  eye, 

The  world's  enchanted  gaze  : 
For  these,  which  to  my  world-sick  eyes 

Seem  dark  and  loathsome  guiles, 
That  I  forsook  our  early  ties, 

And  thine  approving  smiles. 

Thou,  whose  young  life  was  all  mine  own, 

Whose  worship  was  a  flame 
Too  pure  for  aught  save  heaven's  throne, 

And  God's  undying  name ; 
Thou  wert  forsaken  to  a  doom 

Of  sick  and  lone  despair : 
The  shadow  of  thine  early  tomb 

Falls  o'er  me  every  where ! 

Yet,  unforgotten  one,  I  crave 

Thy  pillow  for  my  head ; 
Better  the  still,  the  silent  grave, 

Than  life,  with  torture  fed. 
Would  that  my  weary  lips  had  quaffed 

Their  deep  and  sacred  part 
Of  that  profound,  oblivious  draught, 

That  made  thee  what  thou  art ! 


SPRING  THUNDER. 

WE  know  by  the  breath  of  the  balmy  air, 
By  the  springing  grass  and  the  sunshine 

fair — 

By  the  soft  rain  falling — as  if  in  love 
The  sleeping  blossoms  and  bulbs  above — 
By  the  tint  of  green  on  the  forest  brown, 
By  the  fallen  tassels  of  Aspen  down, 
By  the  lilac  bud  and  the  tufted  larch — 
That  we   have   done  with   the  wayward 

March. 

We  know  by  the  call  of  the  nestling  bird, 
As  she  feels  her  mother  impulse  stirred, 


By  the  venturing  forth  of  the  lonely  bee 
(Like  the   dove  sent  out  o'er   the  olden 

sea), 
By  the  croak  of  the  frog  in  his  willowy 

pond, 
By  the   dove's   low   moan   in   the   copse 

beyond, 
By  the  quickening  pulse  and  the  thrilling 

vein, 
That  April  laughs  into  life  again. 

But   not   the    sunshine,   the   breeze,   the 

showers, 

The  tender  green  on  the  embryo  flowers, 
The   voices   of   birds   or    the    quickened 

sense, 

Appeal  with  such  startling  eloquence 
To  the  heart  that  yearns  for  the  summer's 

reign 

(Weary  and  earth-sick  from  winter's  chain), 
As  that  sound  which  seems  through  space 

to  ring 
The  first  low  Thunder  of  wakened  Spring ! 

O  marvel  not  that  the  men  of  old 
Deemed   its    deep     music    by  gods   con 
trolled, 
And,   by   the    power    that   within    them 

strove, 

Called  it  the  wrath  of  the  mystic  Jove — 
For  we  are  stirred  with  an  awe  profound 
By  that  mysterious  and  sullen  sound — 
Nor  give  we  faith  to  the  birds  and  bloom 
Till  we  hear  that  fiat  of  Winter's  doom. 

So  in  the  Spring  of  our  life's  career 
We  stand  and  gaze  on  the  opening  year, 
We  feel  the  sunshine,  we  drink  the  breeze, 
But  no   source  of   feeling   is   stirred   by 

these ; 

Not  till  the  voice  of  the  stormy  soul 
Swells  like  the  sound  of  the  thunder's  roll — 
Not  till  the  floodgates  of  sorrow  break 
[n   passionate   tears — doth   our    Summer 

wake! 


324 


CATHERINE    A.    WAR  FIELD. 


[1840-50. 


THE  SAME  CALM  BROW. 

SHE  met  me  with  the  same  calm  brow 

She  bore  in  other  years  ; 
I  marveled  then,  I  marvel  now, 

Where  slept  her  blinding  tears. 

She  spoke  not  once  of  that  lost  star, 
That  perished  from  her  sky  : 

Her  words  were  all  of  matters  far 
From  that  great  agony  ! 

She  marked  my  dim  and  tearful  eyes, 
My  broken  speech  she  heard; 

And  dark  and  bitter  memories 
Within  her  heart  were  stirred. 

A  sudden  shudder,  quick  and  sharp, 

Shook  her  with  quiverings, 
As  visibly  as  when  a  harp 

Is  swept  o'er  all  its  strings. 

An  ashen  pallor  vailed  her  cheek ; 

Cold  damps  stood  on  her  brow ; 
And  when  at  last  she  strove  to  speak, 

Her  words  were  whispered  low ; 

But  soon  that  firm,  undaunted  will, 

That  never  strove  in  vain, 
Said  to  the  inward  storm,  "  Be  still !" 

And  she  was  calm  again. 

Calm !     Aye,  with  that  despair  which 
knows 

The  vanity  of  tears, 
She  patiently  awaits  the  close 

Of  her  appointed  years ; 

Thankful  alike,  when  breaks  the  dawn, 
Or  sunlight  fades  in  gloom ; 

Because  each  day  her  steps  are  drawn 
Still  nearer  to  the  tomb ! 


NEVER,  AS  I  HAVE  LOVED  THEE. 

NEVER,  as  I  have  loved  thee, 

Shalt  thou  be  loved  again ; 
With  affections  deep,  unchanging, 

Through  time,  through  grief,  through 
pain. 

None  shall  e'er  watch  above  thee 

With  such  a  tender  care  ; 
With  such  unwearied  vigils, 

Such  patient  hope  and  prayer ! 

Never,  as  I  have  known  thee, 
Shalt  thou  again  be  known ; 

I  studied  every  feature, 
I  pondered  every  tone  ; 

I  weighed  each  sacred  feeling, 
That  made  thy  heart  its  shrine ; 

I  read  my  precious  volume, 
Warily,  line  by  line ! 

Never,  as  J  have  trusted, 
Shalt  thou  be  trusted  more  ; 

The  world  hath  dark  suspicions, 
Wrung  from  its  bitter  core. 

Thy  frank  and  joyous  bearing, 

Thy  glad  and  open  smile, 
Shall  seem,  to  hollow  spirits, 

The  mark  of  perfect  guile. 

Yet,  if  the  love  I  gave  thee, 

And  if  the  faith  divine 
Have  added  but  a  moment 

To  happiness  of  thine, 

I  shall  not  all  regret  them, 

Nor  deem  those  offerings  vain, 

Which  leave  my  own  existence 
A  bleak,  a  barren  plain  ! 


ELEANOR  PERCY   LEE. 


ELEANOR  PERCY  WARE,  sister  of  Catherine  A.  Wai-field,  the  subject  of  the  pre 
ceding  biographic  notice,  was  born  at  Natchez,  on  the  Mississippi  river,  about  the 
year  1820.  She  was  educated  at  Philadelphia  with  her  sister,  and  then  for  several 
years  resided  at  Cincinnati.  In  the  volume  of  poems  by  "  Two  Sisters  of  the  West," 
published  at  New  York,  in  1843,  were  two  or  three  pieces  from  her  pen  which  have 
been  much  admired  and  widely  circulated.  To  the  "Indian  Chamber  and  other 
Poems,"  published  at  Cincinnati,  in  1846,  she  contributed  "The  Stormy-Petrel," 
"  The  Natchez  Light-House,"  "  The  Sun-Struck  Eagle,"  and  several  lighter  poems, 
which  are  characterized  by  peculiar  gracefulness  of  thought  and  sprightliness  of 
versification. 

Miss  Ware  was  married  at  Cincinnati  to  H.W.  Lee,  of  Vicksburg,  Mississippi.  She 
died  in  Natchez,  when  about  thirty  years  of  age. 


TO  THE  STORMY-PETREL. 

I'VE  marked  thee  through  the  livelong  day, 

Lone  wanderer  on  the  ocean's  breast ; 
I've  seen  in  sunshine  stretched  away, 

That  wing  that  never  stoops  to  rest. 
They  tell  me,  o'er  the  waters  wide, 

Thy  pinions  still  forever  move, 
Where'er  may  sweep  the  ocean  tide, 

Where'er  the  ocean  wind  may  rove. 

The  crested  wave  leaps  high  before, 

The  wild  breeze  gathereth  strength  be 
hind; 
Thy  form  above  the  waves  will  soar, 

Thy  wing  outstrips  the  ocean  wind. 
Each  plume  that  waves  above  the  deep 

Flies  landward  from  the  swelling  breeze, 
Save  thine  !  whose  fate  is  still  to  sweep 

Forever  o'er  the  stormiest  seas  ! 


Is  there  no  terror  on  thee  shed, 

No  fear  within  thy  quivering  form, 

When  thy  wild  ruffled  wing  is  spread 
Forth,  on  the  bosom  of  the  storm  ? 


When  o'er  the  waves  the  lightnings  flash, 
And  many  a  gallant  bark  is  riven ; 

And  solemnly  the  thunder's  crash 

Peals  from  the  darkened  face  of  heaven  ? 

The  mariner's  cold  cheek  is  pale, 

The  locks  upon  his  brow  are  wet ; 
He  curbs  the  helm,  he  furls  the  sail 

In  vain ! — the  storm  is  mightier  yet. 
The  sailor's  wife  shall  strain  to-night, 

Her  gaze  across  the  foaming  brine ; 
No  form  shall  greet  her  aching  sight, 

No  voice  be  heard 'mid  waves,  but  thine. 

Tell  her  (if  speech  be  thine,  dark  bird), 

Tell  her,  you  watched  him  to  the  last ; 
Tell  her  you  caught  his  latest  word, 

When  clinging  to  the  broken  mast ; 
Tell  her,  how  peacefully  the  wave 

Above  the  cherished  head  shall  sweep  ; 
Tell  her,  thou  only  know'st  his  grave — 

Oh,  Stormy-Petrel  of  the  deep ! 


And  thou,  hast  thou  no  binding  ties 

To  curb  thy  flight  with  silken  chain  ? 
(  325  ) 


316 


ELEANOR    P.    LEE. 


1840-50.] 


To  call  thee  from  the  raging  skies 
Back  to  the  spreading  earth  again  ? 

Hast  thou  no  sweet  and  silent  nest, 
Wherein  to  watch  thy  little  brood  ? 

No  spot  of  earth,  where  thou  canst  rest, 
When  thou  art  sick  of  solitude  ? 

No  home  !  no  home !     Oh,  weary  one ! 

And  art  thou  like  the  dove  of  yore, 
Who  found  no  spot  to  rest  upon, 

Wandering  the  waste  of  waters  o'er  ? 
And  hath  thy  slender  wing  the  might, 

Day  and  night  on  the  lonely  sea, 
To  bear  thee  on  th'  eternal  flight 

That  makes  thy  life  a  mystery  ? 

A  weary  doom  !  a  weary  doom ! 

For  evermore  to  range  ! 
Never  again  to  fold  thy  plume 

In  the  peace  which  knows  no  change. 
There  rests  on  many  a  human  thing 

The  shadow  of  thy  fate ; 
In  hearts  forever  wandering, 

Alone  and  desolate. 

They  who  bear  on  from  land  to  land 

Some  deep  and  restless  grief — 
Some  agony,  whose  withering  hand 

Hath  crushed  a  joy  too  brief — 
They,  who  go  wandering,  wandering  yet, 

O'er  mount,  and  plain,  and  sea, 
Seeking  forever  to  forget, 

They  only  rove  like  thee. 

They  hurry  through  the  tempest's  wrath, 

And  know  not  that  it  raves ; 
They  hurry  on  the  lightning's  path, 

And  o'er  the  midnight  waves. 
Yet,  though  the  way  be  drear  and  dark, 

And  weary  be  the  breast, 
The  arrow  hurries  to  its  mark, 

The  worn  heart  to  its  rest. 

I  will  not  muse  on  things  like  these, 

For  it  is  idle  now. 
Fling  back,  fling  back,  oh,  ocean  breeze ! 

The  dark  locks  from  my  brow  ; 


So  I  may  watch  the  whirling  flight 
Of  the  bird  of  the  stormy  hour — 

?he  Petrel — on  whose  path  of  light 
Blooms  not  one  earthly  flower. 

Jnresting  one,  thou'rt  fading  fast 

From  the  eyes  that  gaze  on  thee ; 
[*hy  pinion  like  a  dream  hath  past 

Far  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea. 
Go,  and  when  our  pennon  streams 

Beyond  the  tropic  line, 
Sear  to  some  other  heart  the  dreams 

Which  thou  hast  borne  to  mine. 


THE  NATCHEZ  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

LOFTY  and  lone  it  stood, 
That   towery    light-house,  on   my   native 

shore ; 
And  from  the  impending  cliff  looked  on 

the  flood, 
To  light  the  waters  o'er. 

Oft  from  that  river  low, 
I've  upward  gazed  into  the  heavens'  breast, 
And  deemed  that  turret's  bright  and  steady 
glow 

An  orb  that  lit  the  West. 

Often,  returning  far 
From   my  young  wanderings  over  shore 

and  sea, 
I've  deemed  that  beacon  blaze  a  glorious 

star, 
By  angels  lit  for  me. 

But  with  the  passing  years, 
I  saw  that  old,  dark  tower  was  of  the  earth ; 
Yet  loved  I  it,  even  unto  gushing  tears — 

It  lit  my  place  of  birth ! 

There,  there  alone  had  I 
A  right  to  stretch  my  arms  toward  the  clay 


1840-50.] 


ELEANOR    P.    LEE 


327 


That  held  my  mother's  dust,  and  let  the  cry 
From  my  deep  soul  have  way. 

And  evermore  I  turned, 
With  a  true  heart,  unto  the  old  dark  tower, 
To  see,  if  yet  its  heaven-borne  fires  burned 

As  in  my  natal  hour. 

But  at  the  last  I  came, 
And  darkness  found;  upon  that  lonely  spire 
New  lights  had  come,  and  put   the  old  to 
shame : 

They  quenched  thee,  faithful  fire. 

Extinguished  beacon  !  yet 
Unto  my  soul  still  dear  thy  gloomy  tower — 
Thou  Avert  a  star,  I  cannot  all  forget, 

To  me  in  childhood's  hour. 

Thus  to  my  place  of  birth, 
My  heart  still  turns  with  fervor  to  the  last: 
Though  all  her  glory  were  extinct  on  earth, 

My  love  would  hold  her  fast. 

Though  on  that  spot  again, 
My  kindred's  steps  should  never  more  be 

known, 
My   birthplace    holds   my   spirit    in   her 

chain — 
For  am  I  not  her  own  ? 

Never,  again,  shalt  thou, 
Light-house!  shine  bright  over  that  cliff 

so  bold ; 
Never  shall  childhood's  eye,  far,  far  below, 

Vigils  of  deep  love  hold. 

A  faithful  watch  both  kept: 
Yet  thee  they  yield,  with  all  thy  fire's,  to 

gloom ; 
But  in  my  breast  immortal  life  hath  leapt 

And  such  is  not  its  doom. 

Yes,  thou  and  I  have  burned 
With  a  wild  flame,  awhile  to  soar  on  high 
Thou  unto  darkness  hast  thy  visage  turned 

To  heavenly  glory  I. 


THE  SUN-STRUCK  EAGLE. 

[  SAW  an  eagle  sweep  to  the  sky — 
The    godlike !  —  seeking    his    place    on 

high, 

With  a  strong,  and  wild,  and  rapid  wing — 
A  dark,  and  yet  a  dazzling  thing ; 
And  his  arching  neck,  his  bristling  crest, 
And  the  dark  plumes  quivering  upon  his 

breast ; 
And  his   eye,  bent  up  to  each  beam  of 

light, 
Like  a  bright  sword  flashed  with  a  sword 

in  fight. 

I  saw  him  rise  o'er  the  forest  trees ; 
I  saw  his  pinion  ride  the  breeze ; 
Beyond  the  clouds  I  watched  him  tower 
On  his  path  of  pride — his  flight  of  power. 
I  watched  him  wheeling,  stern  and  lone, 
Where  the  keenest  ray  of  the  sun  was 

thrown, 

Soaring,  circling — bathed  in  light : 
Such  was  that  desert  eagle's  flight. 

Suddenly,  then,  to  my  straining  eye, 
I  saw  the  strong  wing  slack  on  high, 
Failing,  falling  to  earth  once  more, 
The  dark  breast  covered  with  foam  and 

gore, 

The  dark  eyes'  glory  dim  with  pain, 
Sick  to  death  with  a  sun-struck  brain ! 
Reeling  down  from  that  height  divine, 
Eagle  of  heaven,  such  fall  was  thine! 

Even  so  we  see  the  sons  of  light, 
Up  to  the  day-beam  steer  their  flight ; 
And  the  wing  of  genius  cleaves  the  sky, 
As  the  clouds  rush  on  when  the  winds  are 

high; 

Then  comes  the  hour  of  sudden  dread — 
Then  is  the  blasting  sunlight  shed, 
And  the  gifted  fall  in  their  agony, 
Sun-struck  eagle,  to  die  like  thee ! 


LOIS  BRYAN  ADAMS. 


Lois  BRYAN,  daughter  of  John  and  Sarah  Bryan,  is  a  native  of  Moscow,  Living 
ston  county,  New  York.  She  was  born  there  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  October,  1817. 
Her  father,  a  prosperous  carpenter,  emigrated  to  Michigan  when  Lois  was  six  years 
old.  Her  early  education  was  acquired  at  district  schools,  in  a  new  settlement.  On 
the  sixteenth  day  of  April,  1841,  Miss  Bryan  was  married,  at  Constantine,  Michigan,  to 
James  Randall  Adams,  a  newspaper  editor  and  publisher.  Mr.  Adams  died  at  Kala- 
mazoo  in  1848.  His  widow,  being  left  without  pecuniary  resources,  devoted  herself 
to  school-teaching.  She  spent  three  years  in  Kentucky  as  a  teacher. 

Returning  to  Michigan,  she  became  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Michigan  Farmer. 
In  1853  Mrs.  Adams  decided  to  make  Detroit  her  place  of  permanent  residence,  and  in 
1856,  she  took  a  proprietory  interest  in  the  Farmer,  since  which  period  she  has  de 
voted  all  her  time  and  talents  to  its  literary  and  business  affairs. 

During  twenty  years  Mrs.  Adams  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  newspaper  litera 
ture  of  Michigan,  and  has  written  occasionally  for  eastern  periodicals  of  wide  cir 
culation. 


A  SONG  FOR  NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

AWAY  with  thoughts  of  pall  arid  bier, 
And  cypress  bough  and  funeral  tear, 
And  wailings  for  the  dying  year. 
Our  household  fires  shall  burn  to-night 
With  warmer  glow,  while  children  bright 
Dance  round  us  in  the  rosy  light. 

Life  was  not  given  for  tears  and  groans, 
The  godlike  gift  of  speech  for  moans, 
Or  faces  made  for  church-yard  stones. 
Hang  the  green  holly  on  your  walls, 
And  let  the  children's  laughing  calls 
Re-echo  through  the  lighted  halls. 

Those  who  have  killed  the  year  may  weep, 
And  low  in  dust  and  ashes  creep, 
With  wild  laments  and  anguish  deep  ; 
But  we  who  loved  him  best  while  here, 
Can  bid  him  go  with  festal  cheer, 
And  lights  and  garlands  round  his  bier. 


He  came  to  us  a  helpless  child 
Amid  the  snows  of  winter  wild — 
Our  hearths  with  blazing  logs  we  piled, 
We  gave  him  shelter  from  the  storm, 
And  closely  wrapped  his  shivering  form 
In  softest  wools  and  ermine  warm. 

We  fed  him  from  our  garden  store — 
The  richest  fruits  our  orchards  bore, 
And  nuts  from  many  a  foreign  shore. 
Our  corn  and  wine  his  strength  supplied, 
Till,  grown  to  boyhood  by  our  side, 
We  gloried  in  his  youthful  pride. 

We  gave  him  flocks  and  fertile  lands, 
We  bowed  our  heads  to  his  commands, 
And  tilled  his  fields  with  willing  hands ; 
When  lo,  to  crown  his  manhood's  morn, 
The  ripening  wheat  and  tasseled  corn 
Were  of  our  loving  labor  born. 


Through  all  the  summer's  noontide  heat, 
We  toiled  amid  the  clover  sweet, 


(  328  ) 


1840-50.] 


LOIS    B.    ADAMS. 


329 


And  piled  its  fragrance  at  his  feet. 
We  reaped  his  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Then  plowed  o'er  all  the  vale  and  plain 
And  sowed  the  hopeful  seed  again. 

And  when  the  autumn's  withered  leaves 
Fell  rustling  round  our  household  eaves, 
We  gathered  in  his  golden  sheaves ; 
We  bound  his  furrowed  brow  with  maize, 
And  honored  his  declining  days 
With  jubilees  of  grateful  praise. 

His  work  is  done;  his  harvest  home 
Is  gathered  where  no  blight  can  come ; 
And  his  sealed  lips  are  sweetly  dumb 
From  the  full  perfectness  of  bliss, 
The  rapture-trance  that  ever  is 
Just  where  the  heavenly  life  meets  this. 

We  want  for  him  no  death-bell  slow, 
No  sable  plumes  and  hearse  of  woe, 
With  mourners  wailing  as  they  go. 
But  bring  in  place  of  tolling  knells, 
The  music  of  your  merry  bells, 
And  cheerful  songs  for  sad  farewells. 

Hang  the  green  holly  on  the  walls, 
Let  social  mirth  and  music  calls 
Ring  through  your  festal-lighted  halls. 
Life  from  the  Old  Year's  death  is  born — 
Let  brightening  hopes  with  smiles  adorn 
The  breaking  of  the  New-Year's  Morn. 


HOEING  CORN. 

OUT  in  the  earliest  light  of  the  morn 
Ralph  was  hoeing  the  springing  corn  ; 
The  dew  fell  flashing  from  the  leaves  of 
green, 

Wherever  his  glancing  hoe  was  seen, 
While   dark  and  mellow  the  hard  earth 

grew 

Beneath  his  strokes  so  strong  and  true. 
And  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 


As  the  sun  went  up,  he  swung  the  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row, 
From  the   earliest   light   of  the  summer 

morn, 
Till  the  noonday  sound  of  the  dinner-horn. 

What  was  Ralph  thinking  of  all  the  morn, 
Out  in  the  summer  heat  hoeing  corn, 
With  the  sweat  and  dust  on  his  hands  and 

face, 

And  toiling  along  at  that  steady  pace  ? 
A  clear  light  beamed  in  his  eye  the  while, 
And  round  his  lips  was  a  happy  smile, 

As  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
While  the  sun  went  down,  he  swung  the 

hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row, 
Faster  toward  nightfall  than  even  at  morn 
He  hastened  his  steps  through  the  spring 
ing  corn. 

Across  the  road  from  this  field  of  corn, 
Was  the   stately  home  where  Ralph  was 

born; 

Where  his  father  counted  his  stores  of  gold, 
And  his  lady-mother,  so  proud  and  cold, 
Lived   but   for  the  satins  and  gauze  and 

lace 
That  shrouded  her  faded  form  and  face ; 

While  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
Unthought  of  went  Ralph,  and  swung  his 

hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row, 
Day  after  day  through  the  springing  corn, 
Toward  the  humble  home  of  Isabel  Lorn. 

This  he  was  thinking  of  all  the  morn, 
And  all  day  long  as  he  hoed  the  corn — 
"  How  sweet  it  will  be,  when  the  shadows 

fall 

Over  the  little  brown  cottage  wall, 
To  sit  by  the  door  'neath  the  clustering 

vioe, 

With  Isabel's  dear  little  hand  in  mine  ! 
So  cheerily  still,  hill  after  hill, 


330 


LOIS    B.    ADAMS. 


[1840-50. 


From  morning  till  night  I'll  swing  my  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row, 
Knowing  each  step  that  I  take  through  the 

corn, 
Is  bringing  me  nearer  to  Isabel  Lorn !  " 

O  glad  was  he  then  that  the  growing  corn 
Shielded  his  steps  from  his  mother's  scorn  ; 
And  glad  that  his  father's  miser  hand 
Had  barred  all  help  from  his  fertile  land. 
So  safely  he  kept  his  forest-flower, 
And  dreamed  of  her  beauty  hour  by  hour, 

As  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
Through  the  field  so  broad  he  swung  his 

hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe — row  after  row, 
Knowing  each  step  through  the  growing 

corn, 
Was  bringing  him  nearer  to  Isabel  Lorn. 

But  months  passed  on,  and  the  ripened  corn 
Was  laid  on  the  ground  one  autumn  morn, 
While  under  the  sod  in  the  church-yard 

bless'd 

Are  two  low  graves  where  the  aged  rest. 
The  father  has  left  broad  lands  and  gold, 
And  the  mother  her  wealth  of  silks  untold, 

And  sweet  Isabel — why  need  I  tell 
What  she  said  to  Ralph,  when  without  his 

hoe 

He  sought  her  side  ?     It  was  not  "  No ! ' 
That  made  her  the  mistress,  one  summer 

morn, 
Of  the  stately  home  by  the  field  of  corn. 


THE  PICTURE  BRIDE. 

ONI:  day  a  lonely  artist  spread 
His  canvas  by  his  cottage  door: 

"I'll  paint  me  such  a  bride,"  he  said, 
"As  never  mortal  had  before. 

• 

"All  artless  in  her  matchless  charms, 
Her  face  her  guileless  love  shall  speak 


So  pride  shall  fill  me  with  alarms, 
No  anger  flush  her  maiden  cheek. 

Pure  as  the  snow-flake  in  the  air 
Her  intellectual  brow  shall  be ; 
[n  ringlets  bright  her  auburn  hair 
Shall  wave  o'er  neck  and  bosom  free. 

And  heaven's  own  purest  blue  shall  bless 
The  depths  of  those  soft-beaming  eyes, 
Where  all  of  woman's  tenderness 
In  half  unconscious  slumber  lies. 

Bright  as  the  blush  of  early  morn 
The  rose-tints  o'er  her  cheek  shall  play; 
But  not  like  morning's  blush, be  born 
To  fade  with  each  departing  day. 

"Long  as  I  live,  my  Picture  Bride 
Shall  stand  beside  my  cottage  door, 

A  purer,  truer,  more  beloved 
Than  ever  mortal  had  before. 

"  Forever  on  her  lips  shall  be 
That  smile  of  angel  loveliness, 

That  speaks  to  me  and  only  me, 
A  welcome  to  her  loved  caress." 

And  day  by  day  the  Picture  Bride 
In  all  her  blooming  beauty  stood, 

The  idol  of  the  artist's  pride, 
Beside  his  cottage  in  the  wood. 

When  morning  oped  her  dewy  eye, 
He  knelt  in  worship  half  divine, 

And  when  the  noonday  sun  was  high, 
Again  he  bent  before  the  shrine. 

And  when  his  weary  toils  were  o'er, 

Arid  night  o'erspread  the  landscape  sweet, 

He  sought  his  beauteous  bride  once  more, 
To  pay  his  homage  at  her  feet. 

Full  oft  those  glowing  lips  he  pressed, 
Bright  lips,  that  only  met  his  own, 

Full  oft  those  dewy  eyes  he  blessed, 
That  beamed  on  him  and  him  alone. 


1840-50.] 


LOIS    B.    ADAMS. 


3:u 


And  when  he  slept  and  when  he  dreamed 
One  form  in  all  his  visions  rose, 

And  still  her  angel  beauty  seemed 
The  guardian  of  his  sweet  repose. 

Thus  calm  and  blissful,  months  and  years 
Rolled  onward  in  their  circles  true, 

Nor  dread  of  death,  nor  jealous  fears 
Could  mar  the  joy  the  artist  knew. 

But  once,  alas  !  in  careless  haste, 
Such  as  is  sometimes  known  to  all, 

His  hand  reversed  his  bride's  sweet  face, 
And  left  her  smiling  on  the  wall. 

"When  to  his  bower  at  evening  dim, 
With  glad  but  weary  step  he  came, 

No  pictured  beauty  smiled  on  him, 
From  out  her  silver-tissued  frame. 

But  cold  and  dark  the  dwelling  seemed, 
No  lips  were  there  where  beauty  slept, 

No  eyes  where  love  and  fondness  beamed — 
The  artist  sat  him  down  and  wept. 

"Ah  me ;  my  weary  life,"  he  cried, 
"  My  all  of  joy  on  earth  is  o'er. 

My  lost,  my  loved,  but  faithless  bride, 
Thy  smile  will  cheer  my  heart  no  more ! " 

Thou  simple  artist,  raise  thy  hand, 

And  turn  again  that  frame-work  slight, 

So  shall  thy  bride  before  thee  stand, 
In  all  her  changeless  beauty  bright. 

'Tis  thus  that  many  a  loving  heart 
Hath  turned  its  joy  to  bitterness, 

Thy  own  impatience  points  the  dart, 
That  wounds  thee  in  thy  deep  distress. 

If  e'er  thou'rt  shrined  in  woman's  heart, 
The  idol  of  her  holiest  care, 


O !  tremble  lest  thou  break  the  spell 
That  keeps  thy  worshiped  image  there. 

But  shouldst  thou  in  a  thoughtless  hour, 
Unconscious,  cause  the  loved  one  pain, 

Remember  'tis  the  self-same  power 
Can  win  her  back  to  smiles  again. 


LILLIAN  GRAY. 

BY  yon  low  grave,  where  Lillian  sleeps, 
And  where  the  willow  o'er  her  weeps, 

The  wild  birds  love  to  stay  ; 
They  meet  around  her  in  the  night, 
They  sing  of  her  at  morning  light, 

I  hear  them  all  the  day ; 
But  O,  it  seems  a  weary  song, 
To  hear  them  singing  all  day  long, 

"  We  mourn  for  Lillian  Gray." 

Within  that  grave  my  Lillian  sleeps, 
Above  her  head  the  willow  weeps, 

She  has  no  sculptured  stone ; 
But,  day  by  day,  an  artist  old 
Is  graving  with  his  fingers  cold, 

My  heart,  to  marble  grown ; 
And  all  the  name  he  traces  there, 
From  dewy  morn  to  evening  fair, 

Is  "  Lillian  Gray  "  alone. 

Beneath  the  tree  that  o'er  her  weeps, 
I'll  lay  me  where  my  Lillian  sleeps, 

To  guard  her  while  I  may ; 
For  sterner  seemed  that  form  of  fear, 
That  traced  the  name  of  Lillian  dear 

Upon  my  heart  to-day  ; 
I'm  dying — and  the  wild  birds  sing 
Above  the  monument  I  bring 

To  thee,  my  Lillian  Gray ! 


HORACE   P.  BIDDLE. 


HORACE  P.  BIDDLE  is  the  youngest  of  a  family  of  nine  children.  His  father 
was  one  of  the  adventurous  pioneers  who  early  made  the  Western  country  their  home. 
He  migrated  to  Marietta  in  1789.  After  residing  on  the  Muskingum  river  until 
1802,  he  removed  to  Fairfield  county,  Ohio,  where  Horace  P.  was  born,  about  the  year 
1818.  He  received  a  good  common  school  education,  to  which  he  afterward  added  a 
knowledge  of  the  Latin,  French  and  German  languages.  He  read  law  with  Hocking 
H.  Hunter,  of  Lancaster,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  by  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio, 
at  Cincinnati,  in  April,  1839.  In  October  of  the  same  year  he  settled  in  Logansport, 
Indiana,  where  he  has  since  resided. 

Mr.  Biddle  has  made  several  excellent  translations  from  French  and  German  poets. 
His  version  of  Lamartine's  beautiful  poem,  "  The  Swallow,"  was  copied  in  many 
leading  journals.  At  an  early  age  he  commenced  writing  rhymes.  One  of  his 
pieces,  printed  when  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  contained  merit  enough  to  induce  an 
other  poet  to  claim  it  as  his  own.  In  1842  he  became  a  contributor  to  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger.  Since  that  time  he  has  furnished  occasional  articles,  prose 
as  well  as  poetical,  to  the  Ladies'  Repository,  Cincinnati,  and  to  other  literary  period 
icals.  A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  a  pamphlet  form,  in  1850,  under 
the  title  "  A  Few  Poems."  Two  years  later  a  second  edition  appeared.  It  attracted 
the  attention  of  Washington  Irving,  who,  in  a  letter  to  the  author,  said,  "  I  have  read 
your  poems  with  great  relish :  they  are  full  of  sensibility  and  beauty,  and  bespeak  a 
talent  well  worthy  of  cultivation.  Such  blossoms  should  produce  fine  fruit."  In 
1858,  an  enlarged  edition  was  published  at  Cincinnati,*  with  an  essay  entitled 
"  What  is  Poetry  ?  "  The  author  elaborately  discusses  the  definitions  that  have  been 
given  by  eminent  thinkers,  and  then  decides  that  "  poetry  is  beautiful  thought,  ex 
pressed  in  appropriate  language — having  no  reference  to  the  useful." 

An  active  and  prosperous  professional  life  has  not  prevented  Mr.  Biddle  from  being 
drawn  into  the  political  arena.  On  the  nomination  of  Henry  Clay  for  the  presidency, 
he  advocated  his  election,  and  was  placed  upon  the  electoral  ticket.  In  1845  he  be 
came  a  candidate  for  the  Legislature,  but  was  defeated.  He  was  elected  Presiding 
Judge  of  the  Eighth  Judicial  Circuit  Court  in  December,  1846,  in  which  office  he 
continued  until  1852.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Constitutional  Convention, 
which  assembled  in  1850.  Although  the  district  was  against  his  party,  he  received  a 
majority  of  over  two  hundred  votes.  In  1852  he  was  nominated  for  Congress,  but 
failed  to  receive  the  election.  He  was  elected  Supreme  Judge  in  1857,  by  a  large 
majority,  but  the  Governor,  Ashbel  P.  Willard,  refused  to  commission  him,  for  the 
reason  that  no  vacancy  in  the  office  existed.  The  Republican  party  again,  in  1858, 

*  A  Few  Poems.     Cincinnati :  Moore,  Wilstach,  Keys  &  Co.,  1858.    12mo,  pp  240. 
(  332  ) 


1840-50.] 


HORACE    P.    BIDDLE. 


333 


brought  him  forward  as  a  candidate  for  the  same  position,  but  the  ticket  was  not  suc 
cessful. 

Mr.  Biddle  leads  a  somewhat  retired  life  at  his  residence,  "  The  Island  Home," 
near  Logansport,  but  has  not  altogether  abandoned  the  practice  of  law.  He  has  a 
well-selected  library  and  a  good  collection  of  musical  instruments,  which  occupy  a 
large  portion  of  his  leisure  hours.  He  has  frequently  delivered  lectures  on  literary 
and  scientific  topics.  It  is  understood  that  he  is  preparing  for  the  press  a  work  on 
the  musical  scale,  for  which  original  merit  is  claimed. 


HAPPY  HOURS. 

THEY  say  that  Time,  who  steals  our  hours, 

Will  never  bring  them  back, 
But  bears  them  off'  like  faded  flowers 

That  strew  his  endless  track. 

But  when  I  think  of  childhood's  dreams 

That  round  my  pillow  cling, 
And  dream  them  o'er  again,  it  seems 

He  never  stirred  his  wing. 

And  when  I  hear  my  father  praise 

His  little  urchin  boy, 
It  calls  to  mind  those  halcyon  days, 

When  all  I  knew  was  joy. 

And  yet  I  feel  the  fervent  kiss 

My  mother  gave  her  son  ; 
Again  I  share  a  mother's  bliss, 

Forgetting  that  she's  gone. 

And  when  I  call  back  friends  again, 

That  erst  I  loved  to  greet, 
And  hear  each  voice's  well-known  strain, 

Again  we  seem  to  meet ! 

Time  hallows  every  happy  hour ; 

While  fading  in  the  past, 
E'en  grief  and  anguish  lose  their  power, 

And  cease  to  pain  at  last. 


Although  he  thins  our  locks  so  dark, 

And  silvers  them  with  gray, 
His  crumbling  touch  can  never  mark 

The  spirit  with  decay. 

He  gathers  all  the  fadeless  flowers, 
And  weaves  them  in  a  wreath, 

And  with  them  twines  our  well-spent  hours 
To  blunt  the  dart  of  death. 

As  after  music's  tones  have  ceased, 

We  oft  recall  the  strain, 
So  when  our  happy  hours  are  past, 

They  come  to  us  again. 

Though   Time   may  mingle   thorns   with 
flowers, 

And  gloomy  hours  with  gay, 
He  bring  us  back  the  happy  hours, 

And  bears  the  sad  away. 

Then  let  us  gather  only  flowers 

Along  the  path  we  tread, 
And  only  count  the  happy  hours, 

Forgetting  all  the  sad. 

And  if  we  yet  should  feel  a  woe, 
Fond  hope  soon  comes  to  prove, 

That  though  'tis  sometimes  dark  below, 
'Tis  always  bright  above  ! 


334 


HORACE    P.    BIDDLE. 


[1840-50. 


TTIE  ANGEL  AND  THE  FLOWER. 

I  SAW  a  child — a  lovely  flower, 
Spring  to  the  Summer's  breath ; 

I  looked  again — twas  but  an  hour — 
And  lo,  'twas  laid  in  death ! 

I  asked  an  angel  why  it  was  so, 
Why  such  to  earth  were  given  ? 

The  angel  said,  "  They  spring  below, 
But  have  their  bloom  in  heaven ! " 


LOVE  AND  WISDOM. 

WHEN  hearts  are  giving  sigh  for  sigh, 

And  pouring  out  their  treasure, 
When  the  fond  breast  is  beating  high 

With  Love's  delicious  pleasure, 
Oh,  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come 

To  cast  a  shade  o'er  feeling, 
Oh,  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come, 

Life's  sweetest  pleasure  stealing ! 

When  lip  to  lip  is  warmly  pressed, 
And  heart  to  heart  is  leaning, 

Feeling  what  cannot  be  expressed, 
Though  Love  divines  the  meaning ; 

Oh,  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come 
To  cast  a  shade  o'er  feeling 

O" 

Oh,  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come, 
Life's  sweetest  pleasure  stealing ! 

We  cannot  love  and  still  be  wise — 
This  truth  is  past  concealing ; 

Wisdom  must  see;  Love  has  no  eyes, 
But  trusts  alone  to  feeling ; 

Then  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come 
To  cast  a  shade  o'er  feeling, 


Oh,  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come, 
Life's  sweetest  pleasure  stealing ! 

If  Wisdom,  then,  casts  Love  away, 

As  fruit  discards  the  blossom, 
Oh,  take  old  Wisdom,  let  Love  stay, 

He's  dearer  to  my  bosom ; 
For  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come 

To  cast  a  shade  o'er  feeling, 
Oh,  why  should  Wisdom  ever  come, 

Life's  sweetest  pleasure  stealing ! 


BIRTH  OF  CUPID. 

A  TEAR-DROP  fell  from  an  angel's  eye, 
And  lodged  in  the  cup  of  a  flower ; 

While  trembling  there,  'twas  embraced  by 

a  sigh, 
And  Cupid  was  born  in  the  bower. 

Thus  sprang  from    embraces,  so  sweetly 

impress'd, 

The  child  of  a  sigh  and  a  tear, 
And  reared  on  the  sweets  of  a  flower's 

breast, 

Why  marvel  he's  wayward,  sweet,  ten 
der,  and  dear  ? 


IDOLA. 

HER  cheek  is  pale,  her  eye  of  blue  so  full 

You  see  the  tear-drop  start ; 
She  is  too  tender  and  too  beautiful 

For  death's  unerring  dart ; 
fet  God  receives  the  dutiful — 

Be  still,  my  heart ! 


SARAH  J.  HOWE. 


SARAH  J.  HOWE,  wife  of  Hammond  Howe,  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Newport, 
Kentucky,  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of  Cincinnati, 
between  1839  and  1849.  In  1847  Robinson  &  Jones,  Cincinnati,  published  a  dra 
matic  poem  from  her  pen  entitled  "Boleslas  II.,  or  the  Siege  of  Kiow."  It  was 
founded  on  incidents  in  the  history  of  Poland.  At  that  time  a  volume  of  poems  by 
Mrs.  Howe  was  advertised,  but  never  published.  Her  best  poems  were  contributed 
to  the  Ladies'  Repository. 


"LET  US  GO  UP."* 

"  LET  us  go  up."     There's  many  a  field, 
Broad,  bright,  and  lovely,  lies  untill'd, 
And  many  a  gushing  fount,  from  which 
Our  empty  pitchers  may  be  filled ! 
There,  in  that  fair  and  glorious  land, 
O'er  which  the  saints  in  heaven  have  trod, 
With  gentle  wave,  the  crystal  stream 
Flows  from  the  "City  of  our  God!" 
"Let  us  go  up."     The  Lord  will  be 
Our  rock,  our  fortress,  and  our  shield  ! 
Though  many  foes  should  hedge  our  way, 
The  Lord's  right  arm  shall  make  them  yield ! 
There  shines  the  sun  with  chastened  beam — 
No  envious  cloud  obscures  his  light — 
And  in  that  pure  and  perfect  day, 
We  shall  forget  that  e'er  'twas  night ! 
"  Let  us  go  up."     Invincible 
Are  those  who  in  Jehovah  trust. 
Our  arms  must  conquer — faith  and  prayer — 
They  who  resist  us  are  but  dust ! 
There  God  will  wipe  away  our  tears, 
And  life  shall  own  no  sorrowing  stain — 
In  Jesus  we  shall  all  be  one — 
United — an  unbroken  chain  ! 


*  "  Let  us  go  up  at  once  and  possess  it ;  for  we  are  well 
able  to  overcome  it."    Numbers  xiii.  30. 


BEND  SOFTLY  DOWN. 

BEND  softly  down,  ye  gentle  skies, 

Bend  softly  down  to  me ; 
That  I  may  see  those  spirit-eyes, 

If  spirit-eyes  they  be — 
Bend  gently  down,  for  I  have  dreamed 

That  there  were  forms  above 
In  every  pearly  star  that  beamed, 

Made  up  of  light  and  love. 

Bend  softly  dowrn,  ye  gentle  stars, 

And  lift  the  azure  vail, 
That  I  may  see  your  pearly  brows 

That  ne'er  with  sorrow  pale. 
There  must  be  hearts  in  that  blue  realm 

That  throb  with  fearful  bliss, 
They  cannot  be  so  dull  and  cold, 

So  pulseless  as  in  this. 

Oh !  I  have  set  my  weary  heart 

On  love  this  earth  hath  not, 
And  mine  through  life  must  ever  be 

A  sad  and  lonely  lot. 
Bend  softly  down,  ye  gentle  skies, 

Bend  softly  down  to  me  ; 
That  I  may  see  those  spirit-eyes, 

If  spirit-eyes  they  be ! 


(  335) 


S36 


SARAH    J.    HOWE. 


[1840-50. 


HYMN  OF  THANKFULNESS. 

I  BLESS  thee,  Father^  that  thy  breath  has 

given 

Existence  unto  me,  a  broken  reed ; 
That  'midst  the  griefs  by  which  life's  ties 

are  riven, 
Thou  hast  bestowed  me  strength  in  time 

of  need ! 
Thy  hand  upheld  me  when  my  heart  was 

fraught 
With  griefs,  that  wrung  my  full  heart  to 

the  core; 
Tho!  I  perceived  not,  'twas  thy  hand  that 

brought 

The  "balm  of  Gilead"  to  the  festering 
sore! 

I  bless  thee,  Father,  for  the  well  upspring- 

ing— 
A  well  of  pleasant  thoughts,  within  my 

breast, 
That   e'er  hath   been   like  April  violets, 

flinging 
Their  pleasant  odor  o'er  the  traveler's 

rest — 
A  well   which   often   cheered   my  weary 

hours, 

And  led  my  spirit  upward  to  thy  throne — 
A  fairy  gift,  that    strew'd   my  path  with 

flowers, 

And  brighten'd  those  that  lay  beside  my 
own ! 

I  bless  thee,  Father,  for  the  sunlight  stream 
ing* 
Like  golden  showers,  on  forest,  hill  and 

dome! 
And  for  the  blessed  stars,  like  watch-fires 

gleaming 
On  heaven's  high  walls,  to  light  us   to 

our  home ; 

And  for  each  little  flower  that  lifts  its  cup 

Of  gentle  beauty  thro'  the  emerald  sod, 

Sending  its  perfume — nature's  incense — up 

Unto  thy  throne,  I  bless  thee,  0  my  God! 


I  bless  thee,  Father,  for  the  light  which 

shineth 
Clear   and   unbroken   on   life's  rugged 

way — 
A  ray  from  thy  pure  throne,  which  ne'er 

declineth, 

But  ever  brightens  till  the  perfect  day; 
That  thou  hast  taught  my  heart  to  be  con 
tent — 

My  weary  soul  to  suffer  and  be  still — 
A  pilgrim  I,  who  patiently  must  wait 
Till  I  have  done  on  earth  my  Master's 
will! 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 

THE  stars  had  come  out  from  their  homes 
of  bright  blue — 

Eternity's  watchers — the  pure  and  the 
true ! — 

As  I  wander'd  abroad  'neath  the  beautiful 
moon 

That  lit  up  the  skies  of  our  radiant  June, 

There  lay  the  proud  oak  that  had  shelter 
ed  the  vine 

Through  winter's  dark  tempests  and  sum 
mer's  warm  shine. 

It  lay  in  the  pomp  of  its  towering  pride, 

The  vine's  gentle  tendrils  all  crushed  to  its 
side, 

The  vine  flowers  scattered,  still  bright  in 
their  bloom, 

And  yielding  in  dying  their  richest  per 
fume  ! 

As  I  gazed  on  the  ruin  the  tempest  had 
wrought — 

The  blossoms  of  spring  with  such  promises 
fraught, 

I  saw  by  my  side  in  the  cleft  of  a  rock, 

A  flower  unscathed  by  the  hurricane's 
shock, 

Still  blooming  so  sweetly,  its  delicate  form 

Defying  the  wrath  of  the  pitiless  storm  ! 

I  looked  at  the  flower,  and  I  turned  to  the  sky, 

And  thought  of  the  "  Rock  that  is  higher 
than  I." 


LEWIS   J.  CIST. 


LEWIS  J.  CIST  is  the  eldest  son  of  Charles  Cist,  who  is  well  known  throughout 
the  West  as  the  editor  of  Cists  Advertiser,  which  was  published  in  Cincinnati  from 
1844  to  1853 — and  as  the  author  of  three  volumes  of  "Annals  of  Cincinnati" — 
published  at  decennial  periods,  the  first  volume  representing  the  Queen  City  in  1840. 

Lewis  J.  in  his  early  boyhood  manifested  a  promising  gift  for  making  rhymes,  but 
his  father  having  a  practical  rather  than  a  poetic  turn  of  mind,  instead  of  encouraging 
him  to  make  authorship  his  profession,  required  him  to  give  attention  to  mathematics 
and  kindred  studies,  and,  before  he  had  attained  his  majority,  the  young  man  became 
an  esteemed  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  the  Ohio  Life  and  Trust  Company.  Bank 
ing,  however,  did  not  prevent  Mr.  Cist  from  often  courting  the  muses.  He  wrote  for 
The  Hesperian,  for  his  father's  Advertiser,  and  for  other  newspapers,  a  large  number 
of  poems,  from  which,  in  1845,  he  made  selections  for  a  volume*  which  was  published 
in  Cincinnati.  In  his  preface  he  disclaimed  "  pretensions  to  the  honored  title  of  poet, 
in  the  legitimate  sense  of  the  term,"  but  styling  himself  a  versifier,  declared  that  he 
had  "contented  himself  with  occasionally  gleaning — here,  it  may  be,  a  weed,  and  there, 
perchance,  a  flower — from  such  by-nooks  and  out-of-the-way  corners  of  the  field  of 
fancy,  as  had  been  passed  over  by  the  more  worthy  and  accredited  gatherers  of  the 
golden-hued  harvests  of  Parnassus."  Notwithstanding  this  modest  disclaimer,  the 
poet's  book  was  received  with  words  of  fair  encouragement  by  influential  reviewers. 
His  poems  commemorating  home  affections  were  particularly  approved.  Several  of 
them  have  been  widely  circulated. 

Mr.  Cist  is  a  native  of  Pennsylvania.  He  was  born  on  the  twentieth  day  of  No 
vember,  1818,  at  Harmony,  a  village  established  by  George  and  Frederick  Rapp 
(who  afterward  made  "  Economy  "  famous),  on  the  banks  of  Conaquenesing  Creek, 
a  small  stream,  rising  on  the  confines  of  Butler  and  Venango  counties,  Pennsylvania, 
and  emptying  into  the  Beaver  river  about  twenty  miles  above  its  confluence  with  the 
Ohio.  His  father  removed  to  Cincinnati  when  he  was  a  child.  There  Lewis  J.  re 
sided  till  1852,  when  he  removed  to  St.  Louis,  in  which  city  he  is  now  Assistant 
Cashier  in  a  leading  bank.  Since  his  residence  in  St.  Louis  he  has  rarely  published 
poems,  but  he  has  devoted  himself  with  poetic  enthusiasm  to  the  collection  of  auto 
graphs.  He  is  prominent  among  the  most  devoted  and  successful  collectors  of  chiro- 
graphic  curiosities  in  the  United  States. 

*  Trifles  in  Verse  :  A  Collection  of  Fugitive  Poems,  by  Lewis  J.  Cist.     Cincinnati :  Robinson  &  Jones,  1845.     12mo, 

pp. 184  • 


(  337  ) 

22 


338 


LEWIS    J.    CIST. 


[1840-50. 


OLDEN  MEMORIES. 

THEY  are  jewels  of  the  mind  ; 

They  are  tendrils  of  the  heart, 
That  with  being  are  entwined — 

Of  our  very  selves  a  part. 
They  the  records  are  of  youth, 

Kept  to  read  in  after-years  ; 
They  are  manhood's  well  of  truth, 

Filled  with  childhood's  early  tears. 
Like  the  low  and  plaintive  moan 

Of  the  night-wind  through  the  trees, 
Sweet  to  hear,  though  sad  and  lone, 

Are  those  Olden  Memories ! 

Like  the  dim  traditions,  hoary, 

Of  our  loved  and  native  clime ; 
Like  some  half-forgotten  story, 

Read  or  heard  in  olden  time  ; 
Like  the  fresh'ning  dew  of  even 

To  the  parched  and  drooping  flower ; 
Like  the  peaceful  thought  of  Heaven, 

In  life's  tempest-stricken  hour ; 
Like  the  cadence  of  a  song ; — 

Yet,  oh  !  sweeter  far  than  these 
Are  the  thoughts  that  round  us  throng 

With  those  Olden  Memories ! 

In  the  solitude  of  even, 

When  the  spirit,  lone  and  dreary, 
Turns  from  earth  away  to  Heaven, 

As  the  refuge  of  the  weary ; 
In  the  dreary  twilight  hour, 

When  the  world  is  calm  and  still, 
And  light  zephyrs  fragrance  shower 

Over  dewy  vale  and  hill, 
Oh  !  then,  sweeter  than  perfume 

Borne  on  aromatic  breeze, 
To  the  softened  spirit  come 

Those  dear  Olden  Memories  ! 

In  our  days  of  mirth  and  gladness, 
We  may  spurn  their  faint  control, 

But  they  come,  in  hours  of  sadness, 
Like  sweet  music  to  the  soul ; 


And  in  sorrow,  o'er  us  stealing 

With  their  gentleness  and  calm, 
They  are  leaves  of  precious  healing, 

They  are  fruits  of  choicest  balm. 
Ever  till,  when  life  departs, 

Death  from  dross  the  spirit  frees, 
Cherish,  in  thine  heart  of  hearts, 

All  thine  Olden  Memories  ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

MOTHER  !  they  say  to  me,  that  thou 

Beginnest  to  grow  old ; 
That  time,  in  furrows  on  thy  brow, 

Hath  placed  his  impress  cold.    • 
'Tis  so !  yet  dost  thou  still  appear 

As  young  and  fair  to  me, 
As  when  an  infant,  mother,  dear, 

I  played  upon  thy  knee ! 

They  tell  me,  mother,  that  thy  cheek 

Hath  lost  that  ruddy  glow, 
Of  which  so  oft  I've  heard  those  speak 

Who  knew  thee  long  ago. 
It  may  be  so  !  yet  will  I  press 

That  cheek  with  love  as  strong 
As  when  in  childhood's  first  embrace, 

Upon  thy  neck  I  hung  ! 

They  tell  me  many  a  charm,  once  fair, 

Beginneth  to  decay  ; 
That  thy  once  glossy,  raven  hair 

Is  turning  fast  to  gray. 
Yet  I  each  hoary  tress  revere, 

Each  charm,  by  thee  possessed, 
As  fair  to  me  doth  still  appear, 

As  first  my  sight  it  blessed ! 

And  yet  I  know  'tis  even  so, 

For  time  is  hurrying  on  ; 
And  those  who  live  to  bless  us  now, 

Alas!  will  soon  be  gone. 


1840-50.] 


LEWIS    J.    CIST. 


339 


And,  mother,  dear,  it  grieves  my  soul 

To  think  that,  day  by  day, 
Thou'rt  reaching  nearer  to  thy  goal, 

And  soon  must  pass  away ! 

Mother  !  in  sooth  it  filleth  me 

With  sorrow  sharp  and  keen, 
When  I  look  back  and  think,  to  thee 

How  wayward  I  have  been. 
Oh !  could  I  but  live  o'er  again 

My  life  from  infancy, 
I  think  how  much  of  care  and  pain, 

Mother,  I'd  spare  to  thee! 

Ah,  vain  the  wish  !  for  time,  once  gone, 

Can  never  more  return  ; 
And  as  it  still  is  hurrying  on, 

Still  onward  we  are  borne. 
And  deeds  once  done,  are  done  for  aye, 

Whate'er  they  may  betoken ; 
And  we  may  utter  words  to  day, 

Can  never  be  unspoken  ! 

But,  mother,  though  I  cannot  now 

Recall  the  years  long  past, — 
Remove  the  shadows  from  thy  brow, 

That  time  and  grief  have  cast, — 
Yet  it  may  be  my  sweetest  care, 

Each  care  of  thine  t'  assuage, 
And  soothe  thine  every  future  year 

Of  earthly  pilgrimage ! 


LOVE  AT  AUCTION. 

O  YES  !  O  Yes !  O  Yes  !— For  sale, 

At  auction  to  the  highest  bidders, 
Without  reserve — pray  list  the  tale, 

Ye  "  nice  young  men,"  and  tender  wid 
ows, — 
A  lot  of  sundries,  of  all  sorts 

Of  gentle  gifts,  of  love  the  token  ; — 
Rings,  chains  and  cupids,  darts  and  hearts, 

Some  sound  and  whole,  some  cracked 
and  broken ; 


Watch-guards,   watch-papers,  and   watch- 
seals  ; 

Rings,  plain  and  fanciful,  in  plenty; 
Breast-pins,  pen- wipers,  and  grace-quills  ; 

With  miniatures,  perhaps  some  twenty  ; 
Pincushions,  fifty  odd,  or  more ; 

Slippers,  with  love-knots,  several  pair ; 
Of  valentines,  at  least  a  score ; 

And  some  few  hundred  locks  of  hair ! 

And  to  begin  the  sale  : — Here's  this 

Small  lot — a  ring,  with  chain  and  locket, 
All  of  pure  pinchbeck — from  a  Miss 

Who  once  drew  largely  on  my  pocket : 
To  balls,  to  concerts,  to  the  play, 

And  rides  I  freely  used  to  treat  her ; 
The  cut  direct,  the  other  day, 

She  gave  me,  when  I  chanced  to  meet 
her! 

Here  is  a  little  fancy  seal, 

With  Cupid  flying  to  his  mam,  on ; 
The  motto  French — Toujours  jidele! 

That's  French,  I  take  it,  for  "  all  gam 
mon  ! " 
The  girl  who  gave  it  me,  next  day 

Denied  my  suit  with  jest  and  laughter; 
And  with  her  cousin  ran  away — 

Toujours  Jidele  !  —  some   three   weeks 
after! 

This  was  the  gift  of  one  I  loved, 

God  knows  how  fervently  and  truly ! 
Or  should  have  so,  if  she  had  proved 

One  half  the  thing  I  thought  her  wholly; 
She  turned  out  but  a  fair  coquette, 

And  when  she  laid  me  on  the  shelf, 
With  this  dark  braid — I  have  it  yet — 

Her  gift,  I  thought  to  hang  myself: — 

I  didn't  though !     I  laid  it  by 

Until,  with  years,  my  love  is  cool ; 

And  looking  now  upon  it,  I 
Can  wonder  I  was  such  a  fool. 

Poor  girl !  she's  wedded  since,  to  one 
Who  loved  her  dearly — for  her  pelf! 


340 


LEWIS    J.   CIST. 


[1840-50. 


The  wretch  to  Texas  late  has  gone, 
And  left  her  now  to  hang  herself ! 

This  valentine  was  sent  by  one 

Whose  name's  "  a  poet's  passion,"  Mary. 
Once  graceful  as  a  bounding  fawn, 

And  mischievous  as  any  fairy : 
She's  married,  too,  and  fat — ye  gods ! 

1  scarcely  can  contain  my  laughter, 
AY  hen  in  the  street  I  sometimes  meet 

Her,  with  her  ducklings  waddling  after ! 

A  miniature !  of  her,  my  first, 

My  warmest  love — perhaps  my  only  ! 
How  has  my  heart  her  image  nursed, 

A  light  unto  my  pathway  lonely  ! 
She  weds  another  soon — her  vow 

To  me  all  lightly  hath  she  broken ; 
Her  gift — aye,  let  it  go,  for  now, 

'Tis  of  her  falsehood  but  the  token ! 

This  tress  of  hair  of  golden  hue 

(Some  call  it  red — 'tis  not,  'tis  auburn ! 
For  the  distinction  'twixt  the  two, 

A  poet  ask,  or  ask  Grant  Thorburn !) 
Belonged  to  one — a  glorious  girl — 

I  loved  as  brother  may  a  sister ; 
Smoothed  o'er  her  brow  each  sunny  curl, 

And  sometimes  chid,  and  sometimes — 
kissed  her ! 

Ah,  those  were  happy  days  to  me ! — 

Dear  Ella,  do  you  ne'er  regret  them  ? — 
Yet  hopeless  "though  the  task  may  be, 

How  have  I  striven  to  forget  them ! 
The  bitterest  sting  in  love  that's  lost, 

Is  memory  of  its  by-gone  pleasures ; 
But  how  must  that  lone  heart  be  crossed 

Which  longs  to  yield  thus  up  such  treas 
ures ! 

No  more ! — the  sale  must  close,  lest  I 
Each  firm  resolve  should  reconsider ; 

Throw  in  one  lot  the  rest — who'll  buy  ? 
I'll  knock  it  to  the  highest  bidder ; 


thought  it  not  so  hardly  done, 
Each  long-cemented  tie  to  sever  ; 
But  now  they're  "  going — going — gone ! " 
And  Love  and  T  here  part — forever  ! 


OHIO'S  PILGRIM  BAND. 

NEW  ENGLAND  well  may  boast 
The  band  that  on  her  coast, 

Long  years  ago, 
Their  Pilgrim  anchor  cast — 
Their  Pilgrim  bark  made  fast — 
'Mid  winter's  howling  blast 

And  driven  snow. 

Long  since  hath  passed  away 
Each  Pilgrim,  hoar  and  gray, 

Of  that  lone  band : 
Yet,  where  their  ashes  lie, 
Sprang  seeds  that  shall  not  die, 
While  ever  yon  blue  sky 

Shall  arch  our  land! 

Sons  of  that  Pilgrim  race 
Were  they  from  whom  we  trace 

Our  Buckeye  blood : 
Ohio's  Pilgrim  band, 
Lo  !  on  yon  shore  they  stand, 
Their  footsteps  on  the  land, 

Their  trust  in  God ! 

Not  with  the  bold  array 
Of  armies  dread,  came  they 

Proud  conquest  on ; 
Through  a  long  warfare  rude, 
With  patient  hardihood, 
By  toil,  and  strife,  and  blood, 

The  soil  was  won. 

Won  from  the  Red-man's  lair, 
To  be  an  Eden  fair 

To  us  and  ours  : 
Won,  as  the  peaceful  home 
Of  age,  and  beauty's  bloom, 


1840-50.] 


LEWIS    J.    CIST. 


341 


While  day  shall  chase  night's  gloom, 
While  time  endures ! 

God  of  the  high  and  free ! 
Our  fathers'  God — to  thee 

Our  thanks  be  given  ; 
Thanks  for  the  true  and  brave — 
Sires  all  that  sons  might  crave — 
Their  forms  are  in  the  grave, 

Their  souls  in  heaven ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  TO  HER  SISTER. 

COME  home,  dear  sister !     Sad  and  lonely- 
hearted, 

As  o'er  another  ray  of  light  withdrawn, 

As  for  the  sunshine  of  her  home  departed, 

The  blind  girl  sits  and  weeps,  to  mourn 

thee  gone. 
Gone ! — the  companion  of  her  mirth  and 

sadness, 
The  friend  and  playmate  of  her  childish 

years ; 

Life,  in  thy  absence,  loseth  half  its  glad 
ness, 

And  this  deep  darkness  doubly  dark  ap 
pears  : 
The  long,  long  day  is  more  than  night 

without  thee — 

Thrice  welcome  night !  for  all  sweet  dreams 
about  thee ! 

Come  home,  sweet  sister !     Ah,  how  much 

I  miss  thee — 
All  thy  kind  shielding  from  life's  rude 

alarms — 
From  day's  first  dawn,  when  erst  I  sprang 

to  kiss  thee, 
Till  night  still  found  me  nestling  in  thine 

arms. 
My  lips  may  speak  not ;  but  the  heart's 

deep  feeling, 

The  spirit's  sadness,  and  the  low-voiced 
tone, 


The  round  full  drops  that  will  not  brook 

concealing, 
These  tell  of  one  deep  grief — I  am 

alone ! 

Alone  ! — Without  thee,  dearest,  what  to  me 
Were  even  life's  best  gift — the  power  to 

see! 

Come  home,  dear  sister !     Can  the  far-off 

stranger, 
How  kind  soever,  yield  thee  love  like 

mine  ? 
Can  fairest  scenes,  through   which   thou 

rov'st,  a  ranger, 
Give  to  thee  joys  like  those  which  home 

enshrine  ? 

Think  how  for  thee  my  lonely  spirit  pineth, 
Through  the  long  weary  hours,  as  day 

by  day, 

Slowly  the  sun  down  yonder  West  declineth, 
Whilst   thou,  my  sun   of  life,  art   far 

away ! 
Thou  canst  not  dream  how  this  full  heart 

is  yearning 
For  that  blessed  day  which  sees  thee  home 
returning ! 

Come  home,  sweet  sister!     Like  a  dove, 

all  lonely, 

My  heart  sits  brooding  in  its  silent  nest, 
O'er  joys  departed.     Come  !  thy  presence 

only 

Can  make  our  home  with  cloudless  sun 
shine  blessed ! 
E'en  as  the  bird,  whose  gentle  mate  has 

perished, 
Droopeth,  no  more  to  notes  of  rapture 

stirred — 

So  pine  I  now,  amid  the  scenes  we've  cher 
ished  ; 
I  cannot  sing,  where,  ever  once  were 

heard 
3ur  strains  commingled,  ere  thy  steps  did 

roam  ; 

My  song  is  hushed !     Sister,  sweet  mate, 
come  home ! 


342 


L  KWIS    J.    CIST. 


[1840-50. 


THE  BEATEN  PATH. 


THAT  Beaten  Path ! — that  Beaten  Path ! 

It  goeth  by  the  door ; 
And  many  a  tale  to  tell  it  hath 

Of  the  days  that  are  no  more  ! 
For  o'er  that  path,  in  weal  or  woe, 

Earth's  weary  ones  have  trod ; 
And  many  a  hurried  step,  or  slow , 

Hath  pressed  its  time-worn  sod. 
There  childhood's  mirth,  and  youth's  glad 

shout 

Have  each  a  merry  peal  rung  out ; 
Oft  gentle  woman's  graceful  tread, 
In  fairy  motion  o'er  it  sped  ; 
While  manhood's  care-surcharged  breast 
A  weightier  step  hath  on  it  pressed  ; 
And  age's  palsied  footsteps  slow, 

There  last,  perchance,  abroad 
Have  feebly  tottered  forth  to  show 
Threescore-and-ten  prepared  to  go — 
Life's  journey  trodden  here  below, 

To  stay  its  steps  with  God ! 

ii. 

See'st  thou  yonder  smiling  boy, 

Just  escaped  his  mother's  arms  ? 
With  what  eager,  gushing  joy — 

Heedless  of  her  fond  alarms, 
Out  upon  that  path  he  springs, 
Light  as  bird  with  feathered  wings 
Running  now  a  frolic  race, 
Walking  then  with  sober  pace ; 
And,  anon,  with  childish  grace, 
Cubing  down  his  weary  form, 
With  unused  exertion  warm, 
On  the  grassy  margin  green, 
Of  the  pathway  he  is  in ; 
Of  that  path,  which  thus,  a  child, 
Treads  he  first,  with  spirits  wild, — 
Of  that  path  which  he  shall  tread, 

Oft  in  manhood's  darker  day — 
When  his  weary,  aching  head 

Gladly  would  he  seek  to  lay 


With  the  care-forgetting  dead, 
'Neath  its  grassy  turf  for  aye ! 

in. 

Ring  out !  ring  out !  a  joyous  shout, 

For  the  fair  and  gentle  bride ! 
Make  room  !  make  room !  for  the  gallant 
groom, 

In  his  dashing  and  manly  pride ! 
For  his  bridal's  done — he  hath  wooed  and 
won 

The  flower  of  the  country  rare ; 
And  worthy  he  of  his  lady — she 

The  fairest  of  England's  fair  ! 

Ring  out !  ring  out !  a  pealing  shout ! 

Let  vassal  to  vassal  call, 
Each  servant  gay,  in  his  best  array, 

Attend  in  the  ancient  hall ; 
For  the  bridal  train  rideth  on  amain, 

And  the  lord  of  that  hall  doth  come ; 
By  that  path  where,  a  boy,  he  wandered  in 

joy, 

He  bringeth  his  fair  bride  home ! 

IV. 

A  toll !  a  sad  and  a  muffled  toll 

Of  a  deep  church-bell,  for  a  parted  soul ! 

The  child,  that  in  glee  o'er  that  pathway 

sped — 
The  youth,  that  in  beauty  and  manhood 

wed — 

The  aged  lord  of  the  castle  is  dead ! 
Hath  rested  the  body  in  solemn  state, 
And  now  'tis  borne  from  the  castle  gate ; 
Sad  its  retainers,  as,  mournfully  slow, 
Over  that  Beaten  Path  they  go — 
That  path  through  which,  when  a  child  he 

sped; 

That  path  by  which  his  fair  bride  he  led ; 
That  path  o'er  which  they  now  bear  him 

— dead ! 

Pause  they  now  at  yon  church-yard's  door, 
And  now — 'tis  entered — the  pathway  o'er; 
That  Beaten  Path  will  he  pass  no  more ! 


ALICE  CARY. 


ALICE  CART,  now  conceded  to  be  one  of  the  most  eminent  writers,  in  prose  and 
verse,  which  this  country  has  produced,  is  a  native  of  Ohio,  having  been  born  in  Ham 
ilton  county,  near  Cincinnati,  in  April,  1820.  She  is  descended  from  a  worthy  stock, 
on  her  father's  side  being  of  Huguenot,  Puritan  and  Revolutionary  blood.  During 
the  fearful  persecution  of  the  Huguenots  in  France,  waged  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  Walter  Gary,  with  his  wife  and  son,  escaped  into  England.  Being 
a  person  of  some  means,  the  father  was  enabled  to  educate  his  son — named  also  Wal 
ter — liberally  at  Cambridge.  After  taking  his  degrees,  Walter,  jr.  emigrated  to  Amer 
ica; — then  the  land  of  promise  to  all  entertaining  his  views — and  located  himself  at 
Bridgewater,  sixteen  miles  distant  from  the  parent  colony  of  Plymouth.  There  he 
essayed  the  office  of  teacher,  opening  a  "grammar-school" — the  first  in  America. 
Walter  had  seven  sons.  One,  John,  settled  at  Windham,  Connecticut.  He  had  five 
sons, — the  youngest,  Samuel,  being  great-grandfather  to  Alice  and  Phosbe  Cary. 
Samuel  was  liberally  educated  at  Yale  College ;  and,  having  studied  medicine,  prac 
ticed  successfully  in  Lynn,  Connecticut,  where,  in  1763,  the  grandfather  of  the  sisters 
was  born.  At  eighteen  he  answered  the  call  "  to  arms ! "  and  served  his  country  faith 
fully  through  the  momentous  struggle  of  the  Revolution.  After  peace  was  declared, 
with  thousands  of  others  scarred  and  bruised  in  their  country's  cause,  he  was  turned 
upon  the  world  with  no  other  wealth  than  an  honor  unsullied  and  a  stout,  brave,  hope 
ful  heart.  He  took  his  government  "promise  to  pay"  in  lands  in  the  then  North 
western  Territory — settling,  after  much  "prospecting,"  at  what  is  still  the  homestead  in 
Hamilton  county,  where  the  father  of  the  sisters  still  lives,  enjoying  the  honored 
regard  of  that  "Clovernook"  neighborhood  which  Alice  has  so  exquisitely  daguerreo- 
typed  in  her  "  Clovernook  Papers,"  and  "  Clovernook  Children  "  and  "  Country  Life." 

Of  the  mother  of  the  sisters,  long  since  dead,  Alice  writes  :  "  My  mother  was  of 
English  descent — a  woman  of  superior  intellect,  and  of  a  good,  well-ordered  life.  In 
my  memory  she  stands  apart  from  all  others,  wiser  and  purer,  doing  more  and  loving 
better  than  any  other  woman." 

In  the  quiet,  almost  cloistered,  life  at  "  Clovernook,"  Alice  passed  the  years  up  to 
1850.  Educational  privileges  were,  in  her  girlhood,  vastly  more  restricted  than  at  the 
present  moment ;  but,  to  one  of  her  temperament  and  thoughtful  cast  of  mind,  her 
daily  life  was  a  text-book,  and  communion  with  nature  a  sermon,  which  served  to  in 
terpret  the  profound  mysteries  of  being  and  feeling  more  effectively  than  "schooling  " 
could  have  done  for  her.  For  a  companion  of  her  early  years,  she  had  an  elder  sister 
to  whom  she  thus  refers : — "A  beloved  (elder)  sister  shared  with  me  in  work  and  play 
and  study ;  we  were  never  separated  for  a  day.  She  was  older  than  I,  more  cheer 
ful  and  self-reliant.  I  used  to  recite  to  her  my  rude  verses,  which  she  praised  ;  and 
she  in  turn  told  me  stories  of  her  own  composing,  which  I  at  the  time  thought  evinced 

(  343  ) 


344  ALICE    GARY.  [1840-50. 

wonderful  ability;  and  I  still  think  that  sister  was  unusually  gifted.  Just  as  she  came 
into  womanhood — she  was  not  yet  sixteen — death  separated  us,  and  that  event  turned 
my  disposition,  naturally  melancholy,  into  almost  morbid  gloom.  To  this  day  she  is 
the  first  in  memory  when  I  wake,  and  the  last  when  I  sleep.  Many  of  my  best  poems 
refer  to  her.  Her  grave  is  near  by  the  old  homestead,  and  the  myrtles  and  roses  of 
my  planting  run  wild  there."  Then  followed  years  of  loneliness  which  few  can  ap 
preciate  who  have  not  been  similarly  endowed  mentally,  and  similarly  circumstanced. 
She  says :  "In  my  memory  there  are  many  long,  dark  years  of  labors  at  variance  with 
my  inclinations,  of  bereavement,  of  constant  struggle,  and  of  hope  deferred."  That 
this  life  of  sacrifice  and  denial  should  serve  to  depress  a  highly  poetic  temperament  is 
not  strange.  In  those  years  of  self-struggle  we  find  the  source  of  the  sad  tone  which 
pervades  her  earlier,  as  well  as  some  of  her  later,  productions. 

The  date  of  Miss  Gary's  first  efforts  at  rhythmic  composition  we  have  not.  At  the 
age  of  eighteen  her  verses  were  first  given  to  the  public,  by  the  Cincinnati  press. 
Their  reception  was  enthusiastic,  surprising  more  than  all  others  the  timid  author. 
She  resolved  to  be  worthy  of  her  evident  talent,  and  entered  upon  a  patient  and  thor 
ough  study  of  authors  and  works  calculated  to  d^v^lop  her  taste  and  to  promote  her 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  people.  During  those  years  of  study  she  continued, 
from  time  to  time,  to  give  her  poems  to  the  press.  They  served  to  command  an  in 
creasing  attention  ;  and,  as  has  been  said,  "  occasional  words  of  cheer  came  to  her 
quiet  retreat  from  some  poet  of  fame,  who,  not  knowing  her,  still  wrote  kindly,  approv 
ingly — as  one  bird  answers  another  across  the  waters." 

She  thus  gracefully  and  gratefully  refers  to  those  years  of  study  and  mental  expe 
rience  :  "  The  poems  I  wrote  in  those  times,  and  the  praises  they  won  me,  were  to 
my  eager  and  credulous  apprehension  the  prophecies  of  wonderful  things  to  be  done 
in  the  future.  Even  now,  when  I  am  older,  and  should  be  wiser,  the  thrill  of  delight 
with  which  I  read  a  letter  full  of  cordial  encouragement  and  kindness  from  the  charm 
ing  poet,  Otway  Curry,  is  in  some  sort  renewed.  Then  the  voices  that  came  cheer- 
ingly  to  my  lonesome  and  obscure  life  from  across  the  mountains,  how  precious  they 
were  to  me  !  Among  these  the  most  cherished  are  Edgar  A.  Poe  and  Rufus  W.  Gris- 
wold." 

In  1850,  Alice  and  Phrebe  left  their  "Clovernook"  home  for  the  more  varied  and 
active  life  of  the  metropolis,  New  York,  and  there  they  have  since  resided,  successfully 
pursuing  the  career  of  authorship,  and  proving  themselves  worthy  of  their  first  high 
promise. 

Their  first  volume  of  poems  was  given  to  the  public  from  Philadelphia,  in  1850. 
No  "  first  volume,"  by  any  American  writer,  experienced  a  more  satisfactory  reception. 

In  the  year  following  Alice  produced  the  first  series  of  "  Clovernook  Papers."  Its 
success  was  somewhat  remarkable.  Several  large  editions  sold  in  this  country,  and 
also  in  Great  Britain,  where  the  name  of  the  author  has  since  become  a  household 
word.  We  may  be  permitted  to  remark  that  these  papers  possess  the  merit  of  origi 
nality — a  merit  now  becoming  rare — the  characters  being  drawn  with  a  power  and 
perception  which  show  how  profoundly  the  writer  has  studied  the  human  heart,  and 


1S40-50.]  ALICE    GARY. 


how  rare  is  her  appreciation  of  the  relations  of  life.  Those  early  years  of  retiracy 
and  self-denial  were  not  without  good  fruits  ! 

In  1852,  "  Hagar ;  a  Story  of  To-day,"  was  published.*  In  1853  a  second  series  of 
the  "  Clovernook  Papers  " — equally  characterized  as  the  first  series  by  originality  and 
beauty.  A  leading  journal,  remarking  upon  these  "  Papers,"  says :  "  Several  editions 
were  published  in  England,  where  they  are  regarded  as  second  only  to  Cooper's  delin 
eations  of  American  life  and  character.  The  volumes  would  occupy  the  same  place 
in  home  estimation,  if  a  present  generation  was  capable  of  a  disinterested  judgment 
of  authors  familiar  from  personal  and  literary  associations." 

In  1853,  "Lyra,  and  other  Poems,"  was  published  by  Redfield,  of  New  York. 
This  volume  silenced  contention  as  to  the  relative  standing  to  be  accorded  the  author. 
Mr.  Poe  had  asserted  for  her  a  leading  position,  and  this  volume  substantiated  the 
claim.  "Lyra,"  "In  Illness,"  " Hymn  to  Night,"  "Winter,"  etc.,  were  poems  pro 
nounced  inferior  to  none  written  in  America,  in  pathos,  beauty  of  imagery,  exquisite 
sensibility,  and  grace  of  utterance.  The  sad  tone  of  the  poems  served  to  impress  the 
mind  somewhat  unpleasantly,  when  read  in  series ;  but,  judged  as  we  are  bound  to 
judge  of  every  production,  by  its  own  intrinsic  merits,  no  just  critic  could  refrain 
from  according  to  Miss  Gary  the  honor  of  being  one  of  the  "  leading  "  women  in  our 
literature. 

The  "  Clovernook  Children"  was  published  in  1854,  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Bos 
ton.  It  is^one  of  the  most  delightful  volumes  in  our  literature  for  young  folks,  and 
has  had  a  large  sale.  In  1855  the  same  house  brought  out  a  more  complete  edition  of 
the  poems  of  Alice.  The  volume  embraced  all  of  "  Lyra  and  other  Poems,"  together 
with  others  of  a  brief  character,  written  subsequently  to  1853  ;  and  also  contained  a 
poem,  of  a  more  elaborate,  if  not  of  a  more  ambitious,  character  than  any  the  lady  had 
yet  given  to  the  public,  called  "  The  Maiden  of  Tlascala,"  occupying  seventy-two  pages 
of  the  volume.  It  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  few  successful  narrative  poems  yet  produced 
in  this  country. 

In  1856  Derby  &  Jackson,  of  New  York,  brought  out  Miss  Gary's  "Married,  not 
Mated."  It  embodied  many  of  the  excellencies  of  "  Clovernook" — the  characters  being 
drawn  with  wonderful  fidelity  and  force.  In  1859  the  same  house  issued  her  "Pic 
tures  of  Country  Life  " — composed  of  contributions  to  leading  periodicals  during  the 
years  1857-'8  and  '9.  The  volume  achieved  new  honors  for  the  author  abroad.  In  a 
notice  of  several  columns  in  length  the  London  Literary  Gazette  takes  occasion  to 
say  :  "  Every  tale  in  this  book  might  be  selected  as  evidence  of  some  new  beauty  or 
unhackneyed  grace.  There  is  nothing  feeble,  nothing  vulgar,  and,  above  all,  nothing 
unnatural  or  melodramatic.  To  the  analytical  subtlety  and  marvelous  naturalness 
of  the  French  school  of  romance,  she  has  added  the  purity  and  idealizations  of  the 
home  affections  and  home  life  belonging  to  the  English ;  giving  to  both  the  American 
richness  of  color  and  vigor  of  outline,  and  her  own  individual  power  and  loveliness." 

We  have  lately  perused  a  note,  from  Miss  Gary  to  a  friend,  from  which  we  take 
the  liberty  of  making  the  following  quotation:  "I  am  ashamed  of  my  work.  The 

*  It  was  written  for  and  first  appeared  in  the  Cincinnati  Commercial. 


346 


ALICE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


great  bulk  of  what  I  have  written  is  poor  stuff.  Some  of  it,  it  may  be,  indicates  abil 
ity  to  do  better — that  is  about  all.  The  public  has  given  me  more  encouragement 
than  I  have  had  reason  to  expect.  Notwithstanding  my  dissatisfaction  with  what  I 
have  done,  I  have  still  faith  and  hope  in  myself.  I  am  not  discouraged  nor  disheart 
ened  a  whit ;  and,  in  my  own  estimation  at  least,  I  grow  a  little  from  year  to  year. 
Not  that  every  thing  is  better  this  year  than  some  things  were  last.  I  report  myself 
— my  observations  and  reflections  more,  books  and  their  suggestions  less.  This  is  more 
especially  true  of  my  verse.  In  my  prose  I  seldom  ventured  off  my  native  soil,  even 
in  my  earlier  efforts.  I  think  I  am  more  simple  and  direct — less  diffuse  and  encum 
bered  with  ornament  than  in  former  years — all  probably  because  I  have  lived  longer 
and  thought  more." 

We  give  this  personal  expression  because  it  seems  to  us,  in  its  latter  portion,  a  very 
happy  and  appropriate  characterization  ;  while  its  denial  of  merit,  in  its  first  portion, 
is  an  unconscious  admission  of  her  unassuming  nature  arid  betokens  the  almost  entire 
absence,  in  her  disposition,  of  that  egotism  which  renders  some  of  our  present  race 
of  poets  often  unpleasant  as  companions  and  correspondents.  Miss  Gary  is  simple  in 
her  tastes,  unostentatious  in  her  style  of  living,  confiding  in  her  disposition,  hearty  in 
her  appreciation  of  goodness,  charitable  in  her  judgments  to  a  remarkable  degree, 
hopeful  in  faith,  agreeable  as  a  companion,  disposed  to  constant  deeds  of  charity,  prac 
ticing  self-denial  as  a  privilege,  and  living  the  life  of  a  pure,  truly  Christian  woman. 


BALLAD  OF  JESSIE  CAROL. 


AT  her  window,  Jessie  Carol, 

As  the  twilight  dew  distils, 
Pushes  back  her  heavy  tresses, 

Listening  toward  the  northern  hills. 
"I  am  happy,  very  happy, 

None  so  much  as  I  am  blest ; 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  valley  of  the  West," 
Softly  to  herself  she  whispered ; 

Paused  she  then  again  to  hear 
If  the  step  of  Allen  Archer, 

That  she  waited  for,  were  near. 
"Ah.  lie  knows  I  love  him  fondly! — 
-    I  have  never  told  him  so  ! — 
II<  art  of  mine  be  not  so  heavy, 

He  will  come  to-night,  I  know." 


Brightly  is  the  full  moon  filling 

All  the  withered  woods  with  light, 
"  He  has  not  forgotten  surely — 

It  was  later  yesternight!" 
Shadows  interlock  with  shadows — 

Says  the  maiden,  "Woe  is  me!" 
In  the  blue  the  eve-star  trembles 

Like  a  lily  in  the  sea. 
Yet  a  good  hour  later  sounded, — 

But  the  northern  woodlands  sway  — 
Quick  a  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Thrust  the  heavy  vines  away. 
Like  the  wings  of  restless  swallows 

That  a  moment  brush  the  dew, 
And  again  are  up  and  upward, 

Till  we  lose  them  in  the  blue, 
Were  the  thoughts  of  Jessie  Carol, — 

For  a  moment  dim  with  pain, 
Then  with  pleasant  waves  of  sunshine, 

On  the  hills  of  hope  again. 


1840-50.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


347 


"Selfish  am  I,  weak  and  selfish," 

Said  she,  "  thus  to  sit  and  sigh ; 
Other  friends  and  other  pleasures 

Claim  his  leisure  well  as  I. 
Haply,  care  or  bitter  sorrow 

'Tis  that  keeps  him  from  my  side, 
Else  he  surely  would  have  hasted 

Hither  at  the  twilight  tide. 
Yet,  sometimes  I  can  but  marvel 

That  his  lips  have  never  said, 
When  we  talked  about  the  future, 

Then,  or  then,  we  shall  be  wed ! 
Much  I  fear  me  that  my  nature 

Cannot  measure  half  his  pride, 
And  perchance  he  would  not  wed  me 

Though  I  pined  of  love  and  died. 
To  the  aims  of  his  ambition 

I  would  bring  nor  wealth  nor  fame. 
Well,  there  is  a  quiet  valley 

Where  we  both  shall  sleep  the  same ! 
So,  more  eves  than  I  can  number, 

Now  despairing,  and  now  blest, 
Watched  the  gentle  Jessie  Carol 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

ii. 
Down  along  the  dismal  woodland 

Blew  October's  yellow  leaves, 
And  the  day  had  waned  and  faded, 

To  the  saddest  of  all  eves. 
Poison  rods  of  scarlet  berries 

Still  were  standing  here  and  there, 
But  the  clover  blooms  were  faded, 

And  the  orchard  boughs  were  bare. 
From  the  stubble-fields  the  cattle 

Winding  homeward,  playful,  slow, 
With  their  slender  horns  of  silver 

Pushed  each  other  to  and  fro. 
Suddenly  the  hound  upspringing 

From  his  sheltering  kennel,  whined, 
As  the  voice  of  Jessie  Carol 

Backward  drifted  on  the  wind, 
Backward  drifted  from  a  pathway 

Sloping  down  the  upland  wild, 
Where  she  walked  with  Allen  Archer, 

Light  of  spirit  as  a  child ! 


All   her   young   heart    wild    with    rap 
ture 

And  the  bliss  that  made  it  beat — 
Not  the  golden  wells  of  Hybla 

Held  a  treasure  half  so  sweet ! 
But  as  oft  the  shifting  rose-cloud, 

In  the  sunset  light  that  lies. 
Mournful  makes  us,  feeling  only 

How  much  farther  are  the  skies, — 
So  the  mantling  of  her  blushes, 

And  the  trembling  of  her  heart 
'Neath   his   steadfast    eyes    but    made 
her 

Feel  how  far  they  were  apart. 
"Allen,"  said  she,  "I  will  tell  you 

Of  a  vision  that  I  had — 
All  the  livelong  night  I  dreamed  it, 

And  it  made  me  very  sad. 
We  were  walking  slowly,  seaward, 

In  the  twilight — you  and  I — 
Through  a  break  of  clearest  azure 

Shone  the  moon — as  now — on  high  ; 
Though  I  nothing  said  to  vex  you, 

O'er  your  forehead  came  a  frown, 
And  I  strove  but  could  not  sooth  you — 

Something  kept  my  full  heart  down ; 
When,  before  us,  stood  a  lady 

In  the  moonlight's  pearly  beam, 
Very  tall  and  proud  and  stately — 

(Allen,  this  was  in  my  dream !) — 
Looking  down,  I  thought,  upon  me, 

Half  in1  pity,  half  in  scorn, 
Till  my  soul  grew  sick  with  wishing 

That  I  never  had  been  born. 
*  Cover  me  from  woe  and  madness  !' 

Cried  I  to  the  ocean  flood, 
As  she  locked  her  milk-white  fingers 

In  between  us  where  we  stood, — 
All  her  flood  of  midnight  tresses 

Softly  gathered  from  their  flow, 
By  her  crown  of  bridal  beauty, 

Paler  than  the  winter  snow. 
Striking  then  my  hands  together, 

O'er  the  tumult  of  my  breast, — 
All  the  beauty  waned  and  faded 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West!" 


348 


ALICE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


In  the  beard  of  Allen  Archer 

Twisted  then  his  fingers  white, 
As  he  said,  "My  gentle  Jessie, 

You  must  not  be  sad  to-night ; 
You  must  not  be  sad,  my  Jessie — 

You  are  over  kind  and  good, 
And  I  fain  would  make  you  happy, 

Very  happy — if  I  could ! " 
Oft  he  kissed  her  cheek  and  forehead, 

Called  her  darling  oft,  but  said, 
Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed ; 
But  that  he  was  grieved  that  shadows 

Should  have  chilled  so  dear  a  heart; 
That  the  time  foretold  so  often 

Then  was  come — and  they  must  part 
Shook  her  bosom  then  with  passion, 

Hot  her  forehead  burned  with  pain, 
But  her  lips  said  only,  "Allen, 

Will  you  ever  come  again  ? " 
And  he  answered,  lightly  dallying 

With  her  tresses  all  the  while, 
Life  had  not  a  star  to  guide  him 

Like  the  beauty  of  her  smile ; 
And  that  when  the  corn  was  ripened 

And  the  vintage  harvest  press'd, 
She  would  see  him  home  returning 

To  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

When  the  moon  had  vailed  her  splendor, 

And  went  lessening  down  the  blue, 
And  along  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Burned  the  morning  in  the  dew, 
They  had  parted — each  one  feeling 

That  their  lives  had  separate  ends; 
They  had  parted — neither  happy — 

Less  than  lovers — more  than  friends. 
For  as  Jessie  mused  in  silence, 

She  remembered  that  he  said, 
Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed. 

'Twas  full  many  a  nameless  meaning 
My  poor  words  can  never  say, 

Felt  without  the  need  of  utterance, 
That  had  won  her  heart  away. 


0  the  days  were  weary  !  weary  ! 

And  the  eves  were  dull  and  long, 
With  the  cricket's  chirp  of  sorrow, 

And  the  owlet's  mournful  song. 
But  in  slumber  oft  she  started 

In  the  still  and  lonesome  nights, 
Hearing  but  the  traveler's  footstep 

Hurrying  toward  the  village  lights. 
So,  moaned  by  the  dreary  winter — 

All  her  household  tasks  fulfilled — 
Till  beneath  the  last  year's  rafters 

Came  the  swallows  back  to  build. 
Meadow-pinks,  like  flakes  of  crimson, 

Over  all  the  valleys  lay, 
And  again  were  oxen  plowing 

Up  and  down  the  hills  all  day. 
Thus  the  dim  days  dawned  and  faded 

To  the  maid,  forsaken,  lorn, 
Till  the  freshening  breeze  of  summer 

Shook  the  tassels  of  the  corn. 
Ever  now  within  her  chamber 

All  night  long  the  lamp-light  shines, 
But  no  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Pushes  back  the  heavy  vines. 
On  her  cheek  a  fire  was  feeding, 

And  her  hand  transparent  grew — 
Ah,  the  faithless  Allen  Archer ! 

More  than  she  had  dreamed  was  true. 

No  complaint  was  ever  uttered, 

Only  to  herself  she  sighed, — • 
As  she  read  of  wretched  poets 

Who  had  pined  of  love  and  died. 
Once  she  crushed  the  sudden  crying 

From  her  trembling  lips  away, 
When  they  said  the  vintage  harvest 

Had  been  gathered  in  that  day. 
Often,   when    they   kissed   her,  smiled 
she, 

Saying  that  it  soothed  her  pain, 
And  that  they  must  not  be  saddened — 

She  would  soon  be  well  again ! 
Thus  nor  hoping  nor  yet  fearing, 

Meekly  bore  she  all  her  pain, 
Till  the  red  leaves  of  the  autumn 

Withered  from  the  woods  again; 


1840-50.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


349 


Till  the  bird  had  hushed  its  singing 

In  the  silvery  sycamore, 
And  the  nest  was  left  unsheltered 

In  the  lilac  by  the  door ; 
Saying,  still,  that  she  was  happy — 

None  so  much  as  she  was  blest — 
None,  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

in. 

Down  the  heath  and  o'er  the  moorland 

Blows  the  wild  gust  high  and  higher, 
Suddenly  the  maiden  pauses 

Spinning  at  the  cabin  fire, 
And  quick  from  her  taper  fingers 

Falls  away  the  flaxen  thread, 
As  some  neighbor  entering,  whispers, 

"Jessie  Carol  lieth  dead." 
Then,  as  pressing  close  her  forehead 

To  the  window-pane  she  sees 
Two  stout  men  together  digging 

Underneath  the  church-yard  trees. 
And  she  asks  in  kindest  accents, 

'•Was  she  happy  when  she  died?"— 
Sobbing  all  the  while  to  see  them 

Void  the  heavy  earth  aside ; 
Or,  upon  their  mattocks  leaning, 

Through  their  fingers  numb  to  blow, 
For  the  wint'ry  air  is  chilly, 

And   the   grave-mounds    white   with 

snow; 
And  the  neighbor  answers  softly, 

"Do  not,  dear  one,  do  not  cry; 
At  the  break  of  day  she  asked  us 

If  we  thought  that  she  must  die ; 
And  when  I  had  told  her,  sadly, 

That  I  feared  it  would  be  so, 
Smiled  she,  saying,  '  'Twill  be  weary 

Digging  in  the  church-yard  snow ! ' 
'Earth,'  I  said,  'was  very  dreary — 

That  its  paths  at  best  were  rough;' 
And  she  whispered,  she  was  ready, 

That  her  life  was  long  enough. 
So  she  lay  serene  and  silent, 

Till  the  wind  that  wildly  drove, 


Soothed  her  from  her  mortal  sorrow, 

Like  the  lullaby  of  love." 
Thus  they  talked,  while  one  that  loved 

her 

Smoothed  her  tresses  dark  and  long, 
Wrapped  her  white  shroud  down,  and 

simply 
Wove  her  sorrow  to  this  song ! 

IV. 

Sweetly  sleeps  she !  pain  and  passion 

Burn  no  longer  on  her  brow — 
Weary  watchers,  ye  may  leave  her — 

She  will  never  need  you  now  ! 
While  the  wild  spring  bloomed  and  faded, 

Till  the  autumn  came  and  passed, 
Calmly,  patiently,  she  waited — 

Rest  has  come  to  her  at  last ! 
Never  have  the  blessed  angels, 

As  they  walked  with  her  apart, 
Kept  pale  Sorrow's  battling  armies 

Half  so  softly  from  her  heart. 
Therefore,  think  not,  ye  that  loved  her, 

Of  the  pallor  hushed  and  dread, 
Where  the  winds  like  heavy  mourners, 

Cry  about  her  lonesome  bed, 
But  of  white  hands  softly  reaching 

As  the  shadow  o'er  her  fell, 
Downward  from  the  golden  bastion 

Of  the  eternal  citadel. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

AMONG  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  the  best  of  all. 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe, 
Not  for  the  violets  golden, 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies, 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 


350 


ALICE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 
And  stealing  their  golden  edge ; 

Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 
Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 

Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip, 
It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep ; 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there,  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  Autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 
Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face. 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 

Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 
That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 

The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 
Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


HARVEST  TIME. 

GOD'S  blessing  on  the  reapers!    all  day 

long 
A  quiet  sense  of  peace  my  spirit  fills, 

As  whistled  fragments  of  untutored  song 
Blend  with  the  rush  of  sickles  on  the 
hills ; 

And  the  blue  wild  flowers  and  green  brier- 
leaves 

Are   brightly   tangled    with    the    yellow 
sheaves. 


Where  straight  and  even  the  new  furrows 

lie, 
The  cornstalks  in    their   rising   beauty 

stand ; 

Heaven's  loving  smile  upon  man's  industry 
Makes  beautiful  with  plenty  the  wide 

land. 
The  barns,  pressed  out  with  the  sweet  hay, 

I  see, 
And  feel  how  more  than  good  God  is  to 

me! 

In  the  cool  thicket  the  red  robin  sings, 

And  merrily  before  the  mower's  scythe 
Chirps  the  green  grasshopper,  while  slowly 

swings, 
In    the  scarce-swaying  air,  the   willow 

lithe ; 
And  clouds  sail  softly  through  the  upper 

calms, 
White  as  the  fleeces  of  the  unshorn  lambs. 

Outstretched  beneath  the  venerable  trees, 
Conning  his  long,  hard  task,  the  school 
boy  lies, 

And,  like  a  fickle  wooer,  the  light  breeze 
Kisses  his  brow,  then,  scarcely  sighing, 

flies; 

And  all  about  him  pinks  and  lilies  stand, 
Painting  with   beauty  the  wide  pasture- 
land. 

Oh,  there  are  moments  when  we  half  for 
get 

The  rough,  harsh  grating  of  the  file  of 
Time ; 

And  I  that  believe  angels  come  down  yet 
And  walk  with  us,  as  in  Eden  clime, 

Binding  the    heart  away  from    woe    and 
strife, 

With  leaves  of  healing  from  the  Tree  of 
Life. 

And  they  are  most  unworthy  who  behold 
The  bountiful  provisions  of  God's  care, 


1840-50.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


351 


When  reapers  sing  among  the  harvest-gold, 
And  the  mown  meadow  scents  the  quiet 

air, 
And   yet   who  never  say,  with  all  their 

heart, 
How  good,  my  Father,  oh,  how  good  thou 

art! 


LYRA. 

MAIDENS,  whose  tresses  shine, 

Crowned  with  daffodil  and  eglantine, 

Or,  from  their  stringed  buds  of  brier-roses, 

Bright  as  the  vermeil  closes 

Of  April  twilights  after  sobbing  rains, 

Fall  down  in  rippled  skeins 

And  golden  tangles  low 

About  your  bosoms,  dainty  as  new  snow ; 

While  the  warm  shadows  blow  in  softest 

gales 

Fair  hawthorn  flowers  and  cherry  blos 
soms  white 

Against  your  kirtles,  like  the  froth  from 

pails 
O'er  brimmed  with  milk  at  night, 

When   lowing    heifers    bury   their   sleek 
flanks 

In  winrows  of  sweet  hay  or  clover  banks — 

Come  near  and  hear,  I  pray, 

My  plained  roundelay. 

Where  creeping  vines  o'errun  the  sunny 
leas, 

Sadly,  sweet  souls,  I  watch  your  shining 
bands, 

Filling  with  stained  hands 

Your  leafy  cups  with  lush  red  strawber 
ries; 

Or  deep  in  murmurous  glooms, 

In  yellow  mosses  full  of  starry  blooms, 

Sunken  at  ease — each  busied  as  she  likes, 
Or  stripping  from  the  grass  the  beaded 
dews, 


Or  picking  jagged   leaves  from  the  slim 

spikes 

Of  tender  pinks — with  warbled  interfuse 
Of  poesy  divine, 

That  haply  long  ago 

Some  wretched  borderer  of  the  realm  of 

woe, 

Wrought  to  a  dulcet  line ; — 
If  in  your  lovely  years 
There  be  a  sorrow  that  may  touch  with 

tears 

The  eyelids  piteously,  they  must  be  shed 
For  Lyra,  dead. 
The  mantle  of  the  May 

Was  blown  almost  within  the  Summer's 

reach, 
And  all  the  orchard  trees, 

Apple,  and  pear,  and  peach, 
Were  full  of  yellow  bees, 

Flown  from  their  hives  away. 
The  callow  dove  upon  the  dusty  beam, 
Fluttered  its  little  wings  in  streaks  of 

light, 
And  the  gay  swallow  twittered  full  in 

sight ; 

Harmless  the  unyoked  team 
Browsed  from  the  budding  elms,  and  thrill 
ing  lays 

Made  musical  prophecies  of  brighter  days ; 
And  all  went  jocundly.     I  could  but  say, 
Ah  !  well-a-day  ! — 
What  time  spring  thaws  the  wold, 
And  in  dead  leaves  come  up  sprouts  of 

gold, 

And  green,  and  ribby  blue,  that  after-hours 
Encrown  with  flowers ; 
Heavily  lies  my  heart 
From  all  delights  apart, 
Even  as  an  echo  hungry  for  the  wind, 
When  fail  the  silver-kissing  waves  to  un 
bind 
The  music  bedded  in  the  drowsy  strings 

Of  the  sea's  golden  shells — 
That,  sometimes,  with  their  honeyed  mur- 

mu  rings 
Fill  all  its  underswells ; — 


352 


ALICE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


For  o'er  the  sunshine  fell  a  shadow  wide 

When  Lyra  died. 

When  sober  Autumn,  with  his  mist-bound 

brows, 

Sits  drearily  beneath  the  fading  boughs, 
And  the  rain,  chilly  cold, 
Wrings  from  his  beard  of  gold, 
And   as   some  comfort  for   his   lonesome 

hours, 
Hides   in   his   bosom   stalks  of  withered 

flowers, 
I  think  about  what  leaves  are  drooping 

round 

A  smoothly  shapen  mound  ; 
And  if  the  wild  wind  cries 
Where  Lyra  lies, 
Sweet  shepherds  softly  blow 
Ditties  most  sad  and  low — 
Piping    on    hollow    reeds    to    your    pent 

sheep — 

Calm  be  my  Lyra's  sleep, 
Unvexed  with  dream  of  the  rough  briers 

that  pull 

From  his  strayed  lambs  the  wool ! 
Oh,  star,  that  tremblest  dim 
Upon  the  welkin's  rim, 
Send  with  thy  milky  shadows  from  above 
Tidings  about  my  love  ; 
If  that  some  envious  wave 
Made  his  untimely  grave, 
Or  if,  so  softening  half  my  wild  regrets, 
Some  coverlid  of  bluest  violets 
Was  softly  put  aside, 
What  time  he  died ! 
Nay,  come  not,  piteous  maids, 
Out  of  the  murmurous  shades ; 
But  keep  your  tresses  crowned  as  you  may 
With  eglantine  and  daffadillies  gay, 
And  with  the  dews  of  myrtles  wash  your 

cheeks, 

When  flamy  streaks, 

Uprunning  the  gray  orient,  tell  of  morn — 
While  I,  forlorn, 

Pour  all  my  heart  in  tears  and  plaints,  in 
stead, 
For  Lyra,  dead. 


CONTRADICTORY. 

WE  contradictory  creatures 
Have  something  in  us  alien  to  our  birth, 
That  doth  suffuse  us  with  the  infinite, 

While  downward  through  our  natures 
Run  adverse  thoughts,  that  only  find  delight 

In  the  poor,  perishable  things  of  earth. 

Blindly  we  feel  about 
Our  little  circle — ever  on  the  quest 
Of  knowledge,  which  is  only,  at  the  best, 
Pushing  the  boundaries  of  our  ignorance 
out. 

But  while  we  know  all  things  are  miracles, 

And  that  we  cannot  set 
An  ear  of  corn,  nor  tell  a  blade  of  grass 
The  way  to  grow,  our  vanity  o'erswells 
The  limit  of  our  wisdom,  and  we  yet 

Audaciously  o'erpass 

This  narrow  promontory 
Of  low,  dark  land,  into  the  unseen  glory, 

And  with  unhallowed  zeal 
Unto  our  fellow-men  God's  judgments  deal. 

Sometimes  along  the  gloom 
We  meet  a  traveler,  striking  hands  with 

whom, 
Maketh  a  little  sweet  and  tender  light 

To  bless  our  sight, 

And  change  the  clouds  around  us  and  above 
Into  celestial  shapes,  and  this  is  love. 

Morn  cometh,  trailing  storms, 
Even  while  she  wakes  a  thousand  grateful 
psalms, 

And  with  her  golden  calms 

All  the  wide  valley  fills  ; 

Darkly  they  lie  below 

The  purple  fire — the  glow, 
Where,  on   the  high  tops  of  the  eastern 
hills, 

She  rests  her  cloudy  arms. 


1840-50.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


353 


And  we  are  like  the 


light 


morning — heavenly 


Blowing  about  our  heads,  and  th'  dumb 

night 

Before  us  and  behind  us  ;  ceaseless  ills 
Make  up  our  years ;  and  as  from  off  the 

hills 
The  white  mists  melt,  and  leave  them  bare 

and  rough, 

So  melt  from  us  the  fancies  of  our  youth. 
Until  we  stand  against  the  last  black  truth 
Naked,  and  cold,  and  desolate  enough. 


WORSHIP. 

I  HAVE  no  seasons  and  no  times 
To  think  of  heaven — often  at  night 

I  go  up  on  a  stair  of  rhymes, 

And  find  the  way  exceeding  bright ; 

And  for  some  accidental  good 

Wrought  by  me,  saints  have  near  me  stood. 

I  do  not  think  my  heart  is  hard 
Beyond  the  common  heart  of  men, 

And  yet  sometimes  the  best  award 
Smites  on  it  like  a  stone,  and  then 

A  sunbeam  that  may  brightly  stray 

In  at  my  window,  makes  me  pray. 

The  flower  I've  found  in  some  chance  nook. 
Giving  its  wild  heart  to  the  bee, 

Has  taught  me  meekness  like  a  book 
Of  written  preaching;  and  to  see 

The  corn-fields  ripe,  an  orchard  red 

Has  made  me  bow  in  shame  my  head. 

When  mostly  in  God's  works  I  see 
And  feel  his  love,  I  make  my  prayers, 

And  without  form  or  formulas 

My  heart  keeps  Sabbath  unawares, 

And  by  the  peace  that  comes,  I  know 

My  worship  is  accepted  so. 


A  LOVER'S  PASTIME. 

BEFORE  the  daybreak,  I  arise, 
And  search,  to  find  if  earth  or  air 

Hold  any  where 
The  likeness  of  thy  sweet,  sweet  eyes! 

In  nature's  book, 
Where  semblances  of  thee  I  trace, 
I  mark  the  place, 
With  flowers  that  have  a  bleeding  look, 

For  pity,  gentleness  and  grace, 

With  lilies  white  ; 
And  roses  that  are  burning  bright 
I  take  for  blushes  :  then  I  catch 
The  sunbeams  from  the  jealous  air, 

And  with  them  match 
The  amber  crowning  of  thy  hair. 

The  dews  that  shine  on  withering  wood, 

Or  thirsty  lands, 
Quietly  busy  doing  good, 

Are  like  thy  hands. 

The  brown-eyed  sunflower,  all  the  day 

Looking  one  way, 
[  take  for  patience,  made  divine 
By  melancholy  fears,  like  thine. 

Ere  break  of  day 
['m  up  and  searching  earth  and  air, 

To  find  out  where, 

If  find  I  may, 
Mature  hath  copied  to  her  praise 
The  beauty  of  thy  gracious  ways. 

The  wild  sweet-brier 
Shows  through  the  brook  in  many  a  place ; 
3ut  for  the  smiling  in  thy  face. 

She  would  not  have  her  good  attire. 

Sometimes  I  walk  the  stubbly  ways 

That  have  small  praise, 
3ut  spy  out,  ne'ertheless, 
Some  patch  of  moss,  all  softly  pied, 
Dr  rude  stone,  with  a  speckled  side, 

Telling  thy  loveliness. 


23 


354 


ALICE    GARY 


[1840-50. 


I  make  believe  the  brooks  that  run 

With  pleasant  noise, 
From  sun  to  shade,  and  shade  to  sun, 

Mimic  thy  murmured  joys. 

So,  dearest  heart, 
I  cheat  the  cruelty 
That  keeps  us  all  too  long  apart, 

With  many  a  poor  conceit  of  thee. 

The  songs  of  birds, 
Floating  the  orchard  tops  among, 
Echo  the  music  of  thy  tongue ; 
And  fancy  tries  to  find  what  words 

Come  nestling  to  my  breast 
With  melody  so  excellently  dress'd. 

Before  the  daybreak,  I  arise, 
And  search  through  earth,  and  sky,  and  air, 
But  find  I  never  any  where 

The  likeness  of  thy  sweet,  sweet  eyes, 
My  modest  lady,  my  exceeding  fair. 


TO  THE  MARCH  FLOWERS. 

KEEP  your  muddy  covers  close,  flowers, 

Nor  dare  to  open  your  eyes, 
For  all  this  month  your  lover,  the  Sun, 

Will  only  tell  you  lies ! 

He  will  only  tell  you  lies,  flowers, 

Pretty,  and  undesigned, 
For  through  this  rough  and  cloudy  month 

He  never  knows  his  mind. 

The  daffodil  may  look  at  him 
With  her  bright  and  angry  eyes, 

But  pinks  that  come  with  their  hearts  in 

their  mouths 
Must  wait  for  warmer  skies. 

O  daisies,  stay  in  your  grassy  house, 
Ye  poor  deluded  things, 


And  keep  your  little  white  fingers  shut 
Away  from  his  golden  rings. 

Ye  meadow  lilies,  leopard-like, 

Under  the  mould,  so  deep, 
Crouch  close,  and  keep  your  spotted  cubs 

For  a  month  yet,  fast  asleep. 

Trust  not,  ye  modest  violets, 

His  promises  to  you, 
Nor  dare  upon  his  fickle  smile 

To  broaden  your  kerchiefs  blue. 

Ye  little  twinkling  marigolds, 
'Tis  wise  sometimes  to  doubt, 

And    though  the  wind  should  shake  his 

moans 
To  music,  look  not  out. 

'Tis  a  rough  and  churlish  month,  flowers, 

So  heed  ye  my  advice, 
Else  you  will  wake,  to  go  to  sleep 

With  cheeks  as  cold  as  ice. 


PENITENCE. 

0,  I  AM  sick  of  what  I  am !     Of  all 
Which  I  in  life  can  ever  hope  to  be ; 
Angels  of  light  be  pitiful  to  me, 
And  build  your  white  wings  round  me  like 

a  wall ; 
And  save  me  from  the  thought  of  what  has 

been, 
In  days  and  years  I  have  no  pleasure  in. 

Disabled,  stalled  in  habit's  deep-worn  rut, 
My  labor  is  a  vain  and  empty  strife — 
A  useless  tugging  at  the  wheels  of  life 
After  the  vital  tendons  all  are  cut : 
I  have  no  plea,  no  argument  to  make — 
Only  your  love  can  save  me  for  love's  sake, 


1840-50.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


355 


The  evil  I  have  done  I  do  deplore, 

And  give  my  praise  to  whom  it  doth  be 
long 
For  each  good  deed  that  seemeth  out  of 

wrong 

An  accidental  step,  and  nothing  more. 
Treasure  for  heavenly  investment  meant, 
I,  like  a  thriftless  prodigal,  have  spent. 

I  am  not  in  the  favor  of  men's  eyes, 
Nor    am    I   skilled    immortal    stuff  to 

weave  ; 

No  rose  of  honor  wear  I  on  my  sleeve, 
To  cheer  the  gloom  when  that  my  body 

lies 

An  unrigged  hulk,  to  rot  upon  life's  ford — 
The  crew  of  mutinous  senses  overboard. 

What  shall  I  bring  thy  anger  to  efface, 
Great   Lord?     The  flowers   along   the 

summer  brooks 
In  bashful  silence  praise  Thee  with  sweet 

looks, 

But  I,  alas  !  am  poor  in  beauty's  grace, 
And  am  undone — lost  utterly,  unless 
My  faults  thou  buriest  in  thy  tenderness. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

IT  was  a  sandy  level  wherein  stood 

This  old  and  lonesome  house, — far  as 

the  eye 
Could  measure,  on  the  green  back  of  the 

wood, 
The  smoke  lay  always,  low  and  lazily. 

Down  the  high  gable  windows,  all  one  way, 
Hung   the    long,  drowsy    curtains,  and 

across 
The  sunken  shingles,  where  the  rain  would 

stay, 

The  roof  was  ridged,  a  hand's  breadth 
deep,  with  moss. 


The  place  was  all  so  still  you  would  have 

said, 
The   picture   of  the    Summer,   drawn, 

should  be 
With  golden  ears,  laid  back  against  her 

head, 
And  listen  to  the  far,  low-lying  sea. 

But  from  the  rock,  rough-grained  and  ice- 

encrowned, 
Some  little  flower  from  out  some  cleft 

will  rise ; 

And  in  this  quiet  land  my  love  I  found, 
With  all  their  soft  light,  sleepy,  in  her 
eyes. 

No  bush  to  lure  a  bird  to  sing  to  her — 
In  depths  of  calm  the  gnats'  faint  hum 
was  drowned, 

And  the  wind's  voice  was  like  a  little  stir 
Of  the  uneasy  silence,  not  like  sound. 

No  tender  trembles  of  the  dew  at  close 
Of  day, — at  morn,  no  insect  choir ; 

No  sweet  bees  at  sweet  work  about  the  rose, 
Like  little  housewife  fairies  round  their 
fire. 

And  yet  the  place,  suffused  with  her,  seemed 

fair— 

Ah,  I  would  be  immortal,  could  I  write 
How  from  her  forehead  fell  the  shining 

hair, 

As  morning  falls  from  heaven — so  bright ! 
so  bright ! 


FAITH  AND  WORKS. 

NOT  what  we  think,  but  what  we  do, 
Makes  saints  of  us — all  stiff  and  cold, 

The  outlines  of  the  corpse  show  through 
The  cloth  of  gold. 

And  in  despite  the  outward  sin — 
Despite  belief  with  creeds  at  strife, 


356 


ALICE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


The  principle  of  love  within 
Leavens  the  life. 

For,  'tis  for  fancied  good,  I  claim, 

That  men  do  wrong,  not  wrong's  desire, 

Wrapping  themselves,  as  'twere,  in  flame 
To  cheat  the  fire. 

Not  what  God  gives,  but  what  he  takes, 
Uplifts  us  to  the  holiest  height ; 

On  truth's  rough  crags  life's  current  breaks 
To  diamond  light. 

From  transient  evil  I  do  trust 
That  we  a  final  good  shall  draw ; 

That  in  confusion,  death  and  dust 
Are  light  and  law. 

That  He  whose  glory  shines  among 
The  eternal  stars,  descends  to  mark 

This  foolish  little  atom  swung 
Loose  in  the  dark. 

But  though  I  should  not  thus  receive 
A  sense  of  order  and  control, 

My  God,  I  could  not  disbelieve 
My  sense  of  soul. 

For  though  alas,  I  can  but  see 

A  hand's  breadth  backward,  or  -before, 
I  am,  and  since  I  am,  must  be 

Forevermore. 


MY  CREED. 

I  DO  not  think  the  Providence  unkind 
That  gives  its  bad  things  to  this  life  of 

ours, 
They  are  the  thorns  whereby  we  travelers 

blind, 
Feel  out  our  flowers. 

I  think  hate  shows  the  quality  of  love, 
That  wrong  attests  that  somewhere  there 
is  right : 


Do  not  the  darkest  shadows  serve  to  prove 
The  power  of  light? 

On  tyrannous  ways  the  feet  of  Freedom 

press  — 

The  green  bough  broken  off,  lets  sun 
shine  in  ; 

And  where  sin  is,  aboundeth  righteousness, 
Much  more  than  sin. 

Man  cannot  be  all  selfish — separate  good 
Is  nowhere  found  beneath  the  shining 
sun : 

All  adverse  interests,  truly  understood, 
Resolve  to  one ! 

I  do  believe  all  worship  doth  ascend, 
Whether  from  temple  floors  by  heathen 

trod, 

Or  from  the  shrines  where  Christian  prais 
es  blend, 
To  the  true  God : 

Blessed  forever — that  His  love  prepares 
The  raven's  food — the  sparrow's  fall  doth 
see; 

And,  simple,  sinful  as  I  am,  He  cares 
Even  for  me. 


BLESSED  LOVE. 

"  LOVE  !  blessed  Love !  if  we  could  hang 

our  walls  with 

The  red  coats  of  a  thousand  rosy  Mays, 
Surely  they  would  not  shine  so  well  as  thou 

dost, 
Lighting  our  dusty  days. 

"  Without  thee,  what  a  dim  and  woeful  story 
Our  years  would  be,  oh,  excellence  sub 
lime  ! 

Slip  of  the  life  eternal,  brightly  growing 
In  the  low  soil  of  time  ! " 


1840-50.] 


ALICE    GARY. 


357 


EXTRACTS  FROM  VARIOUS  POEMS. 

"  YON  lake,  in  her  valley  bed  lying, 

Looks  fair  as  a  bride, 
And  pushes,  to  greet  the  sun's  coming, 

Her  mist  sheets  aside." 


"The  attempt 

Is  all  the  wedge  that  splits  its  knotty  way 
Betwixt  the  impossible  and  possible." 

"I  would  scorn 
The   weakness  of  submission,  though  to 

that 
Life's  miserable  chance  were  narrowed  up." 

"  'Tis  not  the  outward  garniture  of  things 
Which,  through  the  senses,  makes  creation 

fair, 

But  the  out-flow  of  an  indwelling  light 
That  gives  its  lovely  aspect  to  the  world." 


"  Wake,  Dillie  !  the  white  vest  of  morning 

With  crimson  is  laced ; 
And  why  should  delights  of  God's  giving 

Be  running  to  waste?" 

u  The  bird  may  fly  in  its  own  atmosphere  ; 

But  from  the  long  dead  reaches  of  black 
space 

Its  free  wings  fall  back  baffled.     So  it  is 

With  Gods  and  men :  each  have  their  at 
mosphere 

Which  they  are  free  to  move  in,  and  to 
which 

From  ampler  quests  they  needs  must  floun 
der  down." 


"  The  sweetest  sound  would  tire  to-night — 

the  dew-drops 

Setting  the  green  ears  in  the  corn  and 
wheat, 


Would  make  a   discord  in  the  heart  at 
tuned  to 
The  bridegroom's  coming  feet." 


"  Now  in  the  field  of  sunset,  twilight  gray, 

Sad  for  the  dying  day, 

With  wisps  of  shadows  binds  the  sheaves 

of  gold, 
And  Night  comes  shepherding  her  starry 

fold 
Along  the  shady  bottom  of  the  sky." 


For  sometimes,  keen,  and  cold,  and  piti 
less  truth, 

In  spite  of  us,  will  press  to  open  light 
The  naked  angularities  of  things, 
And  from  the  steep  ideal  the  soul  drop 
In  wild  and  sorrowful  beauty,  like  a  star 
From  the  blue  heights  of  heaven  into  the 


"  The  old  astrologers  were  wrong :  nor  star, 
Nor  the  vexed  ghosts  that  glide  into  the 

light 

From  the  unquiet  charnels  of  the  bad, 
Nor  wicked  sprite  of  air,  nor  such  as  leap 
Nimbly  from  wave  to  wave  along  the  sea, 
Enchanting  with  sweet  tongues  disastrous 


Till  the  rough  crews  are  half  in  love  with 

death, 

Have  any  spell  of  evil  witchery 
To  keep  us   back  from   being  what   we 

would, 
[f  wisdom  temper  the  true  bent  of  us." 


•  Borders  and  plaits  of  red  and  sapphirine 
Are  pretty  in  the  robe  of  royalty  ; 
But  to  the  drowning  man,  who  strives  against 
The  whelming  waves,  the  gaud  were  cum 
bersome. 
And   straightway  shredded  off,  and   wet, 

wild  rocks 
lugged  to  his  bosom  with  a  closer  clasp 


358 


ALICE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


Than  the  young  mother  to  her  baby  gives. 
When    from    his    steady   footing    hungry 

Death 
Goes  moaning  back,  the  time  has  come  to 

pluck 
The  honorable  gear." 

"Nay,    down    with    youth    are    my    de 
sires — 

Life  has  no  pain  I  fear  to  meet ; 
Experience,  with  its  awful  fires, 

Melts  knowledge  to  a  welding  heat. 

"  And  all  its  fires  of  heart  or  brain, 

Where  purpose  into  power  was  wrought, 

I'd  bear,  and  gladly  bear  again, 

Rather  than  be  put  back  one  thought. 

******* 

"  For,  could  you  mould  my  destiny 
As  clay,  within  your  loving  hand, 

I'd  leave  my  youth's  sweet  company, 
And  suffer  back  to  where  I  stand." 


"What  though  I  yet  have  my  gown  to 
spin? 

He'll  kiss  my  shoulders,  and  hide  them  in 
Ripples  of  rose-red  blushes — 
And  I  shall  be  dressed  with  blushes." 

"  You  must  not  leave  me  thus,  Jenny — 
You  will  not,  when  you  know 

It  is  my  life  you're  treading  on 
At  every  step  you  go. 

"  Ah,  should  you  smile  as  now,  Jenny, 
When  the  wint'ry  Weather  blows, 

The  daisy,  waking  out  of  sleep, 

Would  come  up  through  the  snows." 

u  Wait  yet  a  little  longer !  hear  me  tell 
How  much  my  will  transcends  my  feeble 

powers : 
As  one  with  blind  eyes,  feeling  out  in 

flowers 
Their  tender  hues,  or  with  no  skill  to  spell 


His  poor,  poor  name,  but  only  makes  his 

mark, 

And  guesses  at  the  sunshine  in  the  dark, 
So  I  have  been.     A  sense  of  things  di- 


Lying  broad  above  the  little  things  I  knew, 
The  while  I  made  my  poems  for  a  sign 
Of  the  great  melodies  I  felt  were  true." 

"  Come,    Poesy,   and   with   thy    shadowy 

hands 

Cover  me  softly,  singing  all  the  night — 
In  thy  dear  presence  find  I  best  delight ; 
Even  the  saint  that  stands 
Tending  the  gate  of  heaven,  involved  in 

beams 

Of  rarest  glory,  to  my  mortal  eyes 
Pales  from  the  bless'd  insanity  of  dreams 

That  round  thee  lies. 
Unto  the  dusky  borders  of  the  grove 
Where  gray-haired  Saturn,  silent  as  a 

stone, 

Sat  in  his  grief  alone, 
Or,  where  young  Venus,  searching  for  her 

love, 

Walked  through  the  clouds,  I  pray, 
Bear  me  to-night  away. 

"  Or  wade  with  me  through  snows 

Drifted  in  loose  fantastic  curves  aside, 

From   humble   doors  where  Love  and 

Faith  abide, 
And  no  rough  winter  blows, 

Chilling  the  beauty  of  affections  fair, 

Cabined  securely  there, — 
Where    round  their  fingers    winding   the 
white  slips 

That  crown  his  forehead,  on  the  grand- 
sire's  knees, 
Sit  merry  children,  teasing  about  ships 

Lost  in  the  perilous  seas ; 
Or  listening  with  a  troublous  joy,  yet  deep, 

To  stories  about  battles,  or  of  storms, 
Till  weary  grown,  and  drowsing  into  sleep, 

Slide  they  from  out  his  arms." 


PHCEBE  GARY. 


PHCEBE  GARY  was  born  in  the  year  1825,  at  the  old  "Clovernook"  homestead,  in 
Hamilton  county,  Ohio.  There  she  lived  up  to  womanhood — a  companion  of  her  sis 
ter  Alice — living  apart  from  the  great  world — learning  life  and  nature  in  their  actual 
ities, — feeling  much,  dreaming  much,  hoping  much,  but  realizing  little  of  the  satisfac 
tion  which  springs  from  the  consciousness  of  merit  recognized,  of  worth  appreciated. 
The  history  of  Phoebe's  life  is  written  in  the  life  of  Alice  Gary ; — their  lives  ran  to 
gether  like  the  chords  of  the  duet,  and  their  hearts  gleaned  like  lessons  from  their 
common  experiences. 

Phoebe  commenced  writing  for  the  press  in  her  seventeenth  year.  Her  early  efforts 
showed  the  influence  of  a  home-life  and  a  constant  communion  with  nature ; — they 
were  filled  with  tenderness,  and  pervaded  with  the  true  poetic  apprehension.  No  in 
considerable  success  followed  upon  her  earlier  efforts,  and  caused  her  to  be  regarded 
with  such  favor  that  the  "poet-sisters"  was  the  expresssion  used  to  characterize  her 
and  the  elder  sister. 

When,  in  1850,  the  sisters  removed  to  New  York — as  stated  in  the  sketch  of  the 
life  of  Alice — their  fame  had  preceded  them.  They  became  the  object  of  much  notice 
in  literary  circles,  and,  by  their  united  labors,  fulfilled  the  expectations  excited  by  the 
brilliancy  of  their  western  debut. 

The  first  volume  by  the  sisters,  was  given  to  the  public  in  1849.  It  embraced  the 
poems  of  both  Alice  and  Phoebe  which  already  had  been  published  in  the  papers 
and  magazines  of  the  day.  Up  to  1854  Phcebe  continued  to  write  for  the  press, 
always  with  acceptance  to  the  public.  In  that  year  her  volume,  "Poems  and 
Parodies,"  was  given  publicity  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston.  It  first  informed  the 
public  as  to  the  authorship  of  parodies  on  popular  poems,  which  had  excited  much 
attention  and  had  had  an  extensive  republication. 

The  poems  of  the  volume  were  chiefly  short  compositions,  embodying  sentiment  and 
fancy  rather  than  the  higher  forms  of  ideality,  in  their  musical  rhythm.  They  served 
to  show  the  poet  in  a  pleasing  light.  The  parodies,  however,  were  too  "representa 
tive  "  to  bear  any  other  than  a  reputation  for  unique  and  original  characterization. 
While  they  preserved  the  form  and  likeness  of  the  originals,  they  still  possessed  such 
humor  and  quaint  sentiment  quaintly  expressed,  as  to  render  them  perfect  poems  of 
the  ludicrous  in  themselves ;  and  they  will,  doubtless,  long  remain  among  the  best  par 
odies  in  our  literature.  While  we  are  disposed  to  question  the  taste  and  propriety 
of  these  travesties  of  the  beautiful,  their  own  inherent  humor,  satire  and  ludicrous 
imagery  cannot  be  denied  the  tribute  of  a  very  broad  smile,  if  not  of  a  hearty,  chest- 
born  laugh;  therefore  we  will  be  excused  for  inserting  here  the  most  "characteristic" 
of  those  parodies — on  Bayard  Taylor's  "Manuela,  a  Ballad  of  California" — Henry  W. 
Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life" — and  "The  Day  is  Done;" — Oliver  Goldsmith's  "When 
Lovely  Woman  Stoops  to  Folly,"  and  James  Aldrich's  "  Death-Bed." 

(  359  ) 


360 


PHCEBE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


MARTHA  HOPKINS. 

A    BALLAD     OF    INDIANA, 


FROM  the  kitchen,  Martha  Hopkins, 

As  she  stands  there  making  pies, 
Southward  looks,  along  the  turnpike, 

With  her  hand  above  her  eyes  : 
Where,  along  the  distant  hill-side, 

Her  yearling  heifer  feeds, 
And  a  little  grass  is  growing 

In  a  mighty  sight  of  weeds. 

All  the  air  is  full  of  noises, 

For  there  isn't  any  school, 
And  boys,  with  turned-up  pantaloons, 

Are  wading  in  the  pool ; 
Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  chickens, 

Cackling,  for  they  cannot  laugh  ; 
Where  the  airy  summits  brighten, 

Nimbly  leaps  the  little  calf. 

Gentle  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins! 

Tell  me  wherefore  do  ye  gaze 
On  the  ground  that's  being  furrowed 

For  the  planting  of  the  maize  ? 
Tell  me  wherefore  down  the  valley 

Ye  have  traced  the  turnpike's  way, 
Far  beyond  the  cattle-pasture, 

And  the  brick-yard,  with  its  clay? 

Ah !  the  dogwood- tree  may  blossom, 

And  the  door-yard  grass  may  shine, 
With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping 

From  the  washing  on  the  line, 
And  the  morning's  breath  of  balsam 

Lightly  brush  her  freckled  cheek, — 
Little  recketh  Martha  Hopkins 

Of  the  tales  of  Spring  they  speak. 

When  the  Summer's  burning  solstice 

On  the  scanty  harvest  glowed, 
She  had  watched  a  man  on  horseback 

Riding  down  the  turnpike-road ; 
Many  times  she  saw  him  turning, 

Looking  backward  quite  forlorn, 
Till  amid  her  tears  she  lost  him, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  barn. 

Ere  the  supper-time  was  over. 

He  had  passed  the  kiln  of  brick, 
Crossed  the  rushing  Yellow  River, 

And  had  forded  quite  a  creek, 
And  his  flat-boat  load  was  taken, 

At  the  time  for  pork  and  beans, 
With  the  traders  of  the  Wabash, 

To  the  wharf  at  New  Orleans. 


Therefore  watches  Martha  Hopkins, 

Holding  in  her  hand  the  pans, 
When  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps 

Seems  exactly  like  a  man's ; 
Not  a  wind  the  stove-pipe  rattles, 

Nor  a  door  behind  her  jars, 
But  she  seems  to  hear  the  rattle 

Of  his  letting  down  the  bars. 

Often  sees  she  men  on  horseback, 

Coming  down  the  turnpike  rough, 
But  they  come  not  as  John  Jackson, 

She  can  see  it  well  enough  ; 
Well  she  knows  the  sober  trotting 

Of  the  sorrel  horse  he  keeps, 
As  he  jogs  along  at  leisure, 

With  his  head  down  like  a  sheep's. 

She  would  know  him  'mid  a  thousand, 

By  his  home-made  coat  and  vest ; 
By  his  socks,  which  were  blue  woolen, 

Such  as  farmers  wear  out  West ; 
By  the  color  of  his  trowsers, 

And  his  saddle,  which  was  spread 
By  a  blanket  which  was  taken 

For  that  purpose  from  the  bed. 

None  like  he  the  yoke  of  hickory 

On  the  unbroken  ox  can  throw, 
None  amid  his  father's  cornfields 

Use  like  him  the  spade  and  hoe  ; 
And  at  all  the  apple-cuttings, 

Few  indeed  the  men  are  seen, 
That  can  dance  with  him  the  Polka, 

Touch  with  him  the  violin. 

He  has  said  to  Martha  Hopkins, 

And  she  thinks  she  hears  him  now, 
For  she  knows  as  well  as  can  be, 

That  he  meant  to  keep  his  vow, 
When  the  buckeye-tree  has  blossomed, 

And  your  uncle  plants  his  corn, 
Shall  the  bells  of  Indiana 

Usher  in  the  wedding  morn. 

He  has  pictured  his  relations, 

Each  in  Sunday  hat  and  gown, 
And  he  thinks  he'll  get  a  carriage, 

And  they'll  spend  a  day  in  town  ; 
That  their  love  will  newly  kindle, 

And  what  comfort  it  will  give, 
To  sit  down  by  the  first  breakfast, 

In  the  cabin  where  they'll  live. 


184U-5U.] 


PH(EBE    GARY. 


Tender  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins ! 

What  has  got  you  in  such  scrape  ? 
'Tis  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter 

On  the  ruffle  of  her  cape. 
Ah !  the  eye  of  love  may  brighten, 

To  be  certain  what  it  sees, 
One  man  looks  much  like  another, 

When  half  hidden  by  the  trees. 


But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle, 

She  forgets  the  pies  and  bread, 
As  she  sees  a  man  on  horseback, 

Round  the  corner  of  the  shed. 
Now  tie  on  another  apron, 

Get  the  comb  and  smooth  your  hair, 
'Tis  the  sorrel  horse  that  gallops, 

'Tis  John  Jackson's  self  that's  there  ! 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 


TELL  me  not  in  idle  jingle, 
Marriage  is  an  empty  dream, 

For  the  girl  is  dead  that's  single, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Married  life  is  real,  earnest ; 

Single  blessedness  a  fib  ; 
Ta'en  from  man,  to  man  returnest, 

Has  been  spoken  of  the  rib. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Nearer  brings  the  wedding-day. 

Life  is  long,  and  youth  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts,  if  there  we  search, 

Still  like  steady  drums  are  beating 
Anxious  marches  to  the  church. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 
In  the  bivouac  of  life, 


Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 
Be  a  woman,  be  a  wife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,— act  in  the  living  Present : 

Heart  within,  and  Man  ahead  1 

Lives  of  married  folks  remind  us 
We  can  live  our  lives  as  well, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Such  examples  as  will  tell ; — 

Such  examples,  that  another, 
Sailing  far  from  Hymen's  port, 

A  forlorn,  unmarried  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  and  court. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  the  heart  and  head  begin  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor,  and  to  win  ! 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


THE  day  is  done,  and  darkness 
From  the  wing  of  night  is  loos'd, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  a  chicken  going  to  roost. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  baker 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist. 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 
That  I  cannot  well  resist. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  like  being  sick, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  a  brickbat  resembles  a  brick 

Come,  get  for  me  some  supper, — 
A  good  and  regular  meal, 


That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  pain  I  feel. 

Not  from  the  pastry  baker's, 
Not  from  the  shops  for  cake, 

I  wouldn't  give  a  farthing 
For  all  that  they  can  make. 

For,  like  the  soup  at  dinner, 
Such  things  would  but  suggest 

Some  dishes  more  substantial, 
And  to-night  I  want  the  best. 

Go  to  some  honest  butcher, 
Whose  beef  is  fresh  and  nice 

As  any  they  have  in  the  city, 
And  get  a  liberal  slice. 


362                                                         PHCEBE    GARY.  [1840-50. 

Such  things,  through  days  of  labor,  Then  get  me  a  tender  sirloin 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease,  From  off  the  bench  or  hook, 

For  sad  and  desperate  feelings,  And  lend  to  its  sterling  goodness 

Are  woudeiful  remedies.  The  science  of  the  cook. 

They  have  an  astonishing  power  And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  comfort, 

To  aid  and  re-enforce,  And  the  cares  with  which  it  begun 

And  come  like  the  "  Finally,  brethren,"  Shall  fold  up  their  blankets  like  Indians, 

That  follows  a  long  discourse.  And  silently  cut  and  run. 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN." 

WHEN  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor,  The  only  way  to  bring  him  over, 

And  finds,  too  late,  that  man  wont  bend,  The  last  experiment  to  try, 

What  earthly  circumstance  can  save  her  Whether  a  husband  or  a  lover, 

From  disappointment  in  the  end  ?  If  he  have  feeling,  is,  to  cry ! 


THE  WIFE. 

HKR  washing  ended  with  the  day,  But  when  the  sun  in  all  its  state 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close,  Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 

And  passed  the  long,  long  night  away,  She  passed  about  the  kitchen  grate, 

In  darning  ragged  hose.  And  went  to  making  pies. 

Miss  Gary  has  published  no  volume  since  1854,  but  has  continued  to  write  for  our 
best  magazines  and  weekly  journals.  She  is  one  of  those  poets  who,  while  their  con 
tributions  do  not  create  particular  remark,  still  are  ever  welcome  and  popular.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  she  will  gather  her  later  poems  in  the  more  readable  and  permanent 
form  of  a  book.  Such  a  volume  would  serve  to  give  her  distinctive  position  among 
our  poets  of  sentiment  and  fancy. 

Of  the  poet,  a  critic  who  knows  her  well,  writes : — "  Phoebe  Gary  is  a  delightful 
and  a  genial  friend.  She  has  in  her  nature  a  vein  of  sunny  philosophy, — such  a 
genius  for  seeing  the  world,  and  the  people  in  it,  in  such  a  pleasant  light,  that  one 
grows  better  and  happier  in  her  presence.  These  qualities,  combined  with  a  deep 
religious  faith,  which  finds  its  unwavering  center  in  the  promises  of  God,  make  her  a 
harmonious  and  happy  woman.  Instead  of  being  frightful  with  wrinkles,  she  is  radi 
ant  with  dimples — has  jet-black  hair  and  eyes,  and  lights  up  gloriously.  She  has 
written  many  tenderly  beautiful  things.  Her  poetry,  though  possessing  some  of  the 
characteristics  of  that  of  Alice,  has  a  marked  individuality  of  its  own." 

The  extracts  which  follow,  are  chosen  without  particular  care  from  those  poems 
within  our  reach.  They  are  such  as  almost  weekly  fall  from  her  pen,  and,  we  believe, 
such  as  will  serve  to  show  the  poet's  powers  in  their  most  truthful  light. 


1840-50.] 


PHCEBE    GARY. 


3G3 


EQUALITY. 

MOST  favored  lady  in  the  land, 

I  well  can  bear  your  scorn  or  pride ; 

For  in  all  truest  wealth,  to-day, 
I  stand  an  equal  by  your  side ! 

No  better  parentage  have  you — 
One  is  our  Father,  one  our  Friend ; 

The  same  inheritance  awaits 

Our  claiming,  at  the  journey's  end. 

No  broader  flight  your  thought  can  take — 
Faith  on  no  firmer  basis  rest ; 

Nor  can  the  dreams  of  fancy  wake 
A  sweeter  tumult  in  your  breast. 

You  may  have  lovers,  many  score, 
To  follow  always  at  your  call ; 

I  have  one  friend,  so  good  and  true, 
I  would  not  give  him  for  them  all. 

And  in  your  most  triumphant  hour — 
O  beauty's  perfect  consciousness — 

When  thousand  lips  have  praised  your  face, 
Or  the  rich  flo wings  of  your  dress, 

You  cannot  know  the  quiet  joy, 

With  which  one  friend  my  heart  can  thrill, 
When  I  have  made  some  simple  dress 

To  wear,  and  he  has  praised  my  skill ! 

Life  may  bring  to  you  every  good 
Which  from  a  Father's  hand  can  fall ; 

But  if  true  lips  have  said  to  me, 
"  I  love  you,"  I  have  known  it  all ! 


WORSHIPING  AFAR  OFF. 

SHINING  out  whitely,  from  the  lily's  white 
ness, 

Or  purple  from  the  morning-glory's  cup, 
In  the  pure  dew-drop,  I  had  seen  God's 
brightness 

Flash  proudly  up. 


In  his  great  mountains,  standing  grand  and 

hoary, 

And  in  the  star-lamps   swinging  over 
head, 

I  recognized  the  grandeur  and  the  glory 
About  him  spread. 

I  saw  the  wine  gush  out  from   full  red 

presses, 

The  water,  that  keeps  singing  as  it  runs, 
And  said,  how  liberally  the  Father  blesses 
His  thankless  sons. 

In  the  free  rain,  that  swells  the  buried 

treasure, 
In  the  white  harvest  field's  thick-bearded 

crop, 

I  saw,  how  from  his  good  hand,  without 
measure, 

His  riches  drop. 

And  I  believed  that  he  would  always  hear 
me, 

Care  for  me  now,  and  raise  me  from  the 

dead, 

Only  he  was  not  brought  down  very  near 
me, 

For  all  I  said. 

I  did  but  stand  within  the  outer  portal, 

I  was  below,  and  he  was  far  above, — 
I  loved  him  not,  until  I  loved  a  mortal, 
As  mortals  love. 

For,  though  he  may  trust  God,  and  wor 
ship  purely, 

Who  but  his  commonest  blessings  under 
stands, 

The  human  heart  is  touched  by  him  most 
surely 

With  human  hands. 

And  through  its  deepest  love,  our  God  unto 

us, 

Clearly  and  perfectly,  himself  reveals, 
All  faith  believed,  and  all  to  which  hope 
drew  us, 

Love  knows  and  feels. 


364 


PHGEBE    GARY. 


[1840-50. 


RECONCILED. 

O,  YEARS,  gone  down  into  the  past ; 

What  pleasant  memories  come  to  me, 
Of  your  untroubled  days  of  peace, 

And  hours  of  almost  ecstasy ! 

Yet  would  I  have  no  moon  stand  still, 
Where  life's  most  pleasant  valleys  lie ; 

Nor  wheel  the  planet  of  the  day 

Back  on  his  pathway  through  the  sky. 

For  though,  when  youthful  pleasures  died, 
My  youth  itself  went  with  them,  too; 

To-day,  aye  !  even  this  very  hour, 
Is  the  best  hour  I  ever  knew. 

Not  that  my  Father  gives  to  me 

More  blessings  than  in  days  gone  by ; 

Dropping  in  my  uplifted  hands 

All  things  for  which  I  blindly  cry : 

But  that  his  plans  and  purposes 

Have  grown  to  me  less  strange  and  dim ; 
And  where  I  cannot  understand, 

I  trust  the  issues  unto  him. 

And,  spite  of  many  broken  dreams, 
This  have  I  truly  learned  to  say — 

Prayers,  which  I  thought  unanswered  once, 
Were  answered  in  God's  own  best  way 

And  though  some  hopes  I  cherished  once 
Perished  untimely  ere  their  birth, 

Yet  have  I  been  beloved  and  blessed 
Beyond  the  measure  of  my  worth. 

And  sometimes  in  my  hours  of  grief, 
For  moments  I  have  come  to  stand 

Where  in  the  sorrows  on  me  laid, 

I  felt  the  chastening  of  God's  hand  ; — 

Then  learned  I  that  the  weakest  ones 
Are  kept  securest  from  life's  harms ; 

And  that  the  tender  lambs  alone 

Are  carried  in  the  shepherd's  arms — 


And,  sitting  by  the  way-side  blind, 
He  is  the  nearest  to  the  light, 

Who  crieth  out  most  earnestly, 

"  Lord,  that  I  might  receive  my  sight!" 

0  feet,  grown  weary  as  ye  walk, 

Where  down  life's  hill  my  pathway  lies, 

What  care  I,  while  my  soul  can  mount, 
As  the  young  eagle  mounts  the  skies! 

O  eyes,  with  weeping  faded  out, 
What  matters  it  how  dim  ye  be  ? 

My  inner  vision  sweeps  untired 
The  reaches  of  eternity  ! 

O  death,  most  dreaded  power  of  all, 
When  the  last  moment  comes,  and  thou 

Darkenest  the  windows  of  my  soul, 
Through  which  I  look  on  nature  now ; 

Yea,  when  mortality  dissolves, 

Shall  I  not  meet  thine  hour  unawed  ? 

My  house  eternal  in  the  heavens 
Is  lighted  by  the  smile  of  God ! 


THE  FANTASY. 

ONCE,  charmed  by  thy  most  pleasant  smile, 
And  listening  to  thy  praises,  such 

As  woman,  hearing  all  the  while, 

I  think  could  never  hear  too  much — 

I  had  a  pleasant  fantasy, 

Of  souls  that  meet,  and,  meeting,  blend ; 
And,  hearing  that  same  dream  from  thee, 

I  said  I  loved  thee,  O  my  friend  I 

That  was  the  flood-tide  of  my  youth, 
And  now  its  calm  waves  backward  flow ; 

I  cannot  tell  if  it  were  truth, 
Nor  whether  I  do  love  or  no. 


1840-50.] 


PHOEBE    CARY. 


365 


My  days  and  nights  pass  pleasantly, 
Serenely  on  the  seasons  glide  ; 

And  though  I  think  and  dream  of  thee, 
I  dream  of  many  things  beside. 

Most  eagerly  thy  praise  is  sought ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  meet  and  sad  to  part  • 
But  all  my  best  and  deepest  thought 

Is  hidden  from  thee.  in  my  heart. 

Then  blame  not  that  my  love  is  less 
Than  should  repay  thy  heart's  desire ; 

For  though  I  give  thee  only  this, 
I  give  thee  all  thou  canst  inspire. 


IMPATIENCE. 

WILL  the  mocking  daylight  never  be  done? 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
0  weary  sun !  O  merciless  sun  ! 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting ! 

And  yet,  if  the  days  could  come  and  go 

As  fast  as  I  count  them  over, 
They  would  seem  to  me  like  years,  I  know, 

Till  they  brought  me  back  my  lover. 

Down  through  the  valleys,  down  to  the 
south, 

0  west  wind,  go  with  fleetness, 
Kiss,  with  your  kisses,  his  perfect  mouth, 

And  bring  to  me  all  its  sweetness. 


Go  when  he  lieth  in  slumber  deep, 
And  put  your  arms  about  him, 

And  hear  if  he  whispers  my  name  in 
And  tell  him  I  die  without  him. 


O  birds,  that  sail  the  air  like  ships, 

To  me  such  discord  bringing, 
If  you  heard  the  sound  of  my  lover's  lips, 

You  would  be  ashamed  of  your  singing! 


O  rose,  from  whose  heart  such  a  crimson 
rain 

Up  to  your  soft  cheek  gushes, 
You  could  never  show  your  face  again, 

If  you  saw  my  lover's  blushes ! 

O  hateful  stars,  in  hateful  skies, 
Can  you  think  your  light  is  tender, 

When  you  steal  it  all  from  my  lover's  eyes, 
And  shine  with  a  borrowed  splendor  ? 

O  sun,  going  over  the  western  wall, 
If  you  stay  there  none  will  heed  you ; 

For  why  should  you  rise  or  shine  at  all 
When  he  is  not  here  to  need  you  ? 

Will  the  mocking  daylight  never  be  done  ? 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
O  weary  sun  !  O  merciless  sun  ! 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting ! 


WANTS  AND  BLESSINGS. 

No  gift  of  poesy  is  mine, 

To  bring  me  either  friends  or  fame ; 
I  have  not  written  any  line 

To  link  remembrance  with  my  name ; 

No  wealth,  to  take  with  open  palms 
Its  blessings  to  the  poor  and  weak — 

Not  of  my  charities  and  alms 
Has  any  tongue  a  right  to  speak. 

I  have  no  beauty  in  my  face, 

Where  roses  bloomed  not  in  its  prime ; 
The  brown  grows  darker,  and  I  trace 

Daily  the  deepening  lines  of  time. 

Yet  to  me  friends,  most  kind  and  true, 
A  little  of  their  love  have  given ; 

I  have  my  blessings,  though  but  few, 
Some  trust  in  man,  much  faith  in  heaven — 


366 


PHCEBE    CARY. 


[1840-50. 


Faitli  that  our  Lord's  great  sacrifice 
I  lath  power  to  save  us  from  the  fall 

And  hope,  through  God's  abounding  grace, 
To  find  forgiveness — this  is  all. 


THE  MIND'S  POSSESSIONS. 

THERE  is  no  comfort  in  the  world 
But  I  in  thought  have  known, 

No  bliss  for  any  human  heart 
I  cannot  dream  my  own ; 

And  fancied  joys  may  often  be 

More  real  than  reality. 

I  have  a  house  in  which  to  live, 

Not  grand,  but  very  good, 
A  hearth-fire  always  warm  and  bright, 

A  board  with  daintiest  food ; 
And  I,  when  tried  with  care  or  doubt, 
Go  in  and  shut  my  sorrows  out. 

I  have  a  father,  one  whose  thought 
Goes  with  me  when  I  roam  ; 

A  mother,  watching  in  some  door 
To  see  her  child  come  home ; 

And  sisters,  in  whose  dear  eyes  shine 

Such  fondness,  looking  into  mine. 

I  have  a  friend,  who  sees  in  me 

What  none  beside  can  see, 
Who,  looking  kindly  on  me,  says, 

"  Dear,  you  are  dear  to  me ! " 
A  friend,  whose  smile  is  never  dim, 
And  I  can  never  change  to  him. 

My  boys  are  very  gentle  boys, 
And  when  I  see  them  grown, 

They're  truer,  braver,  nobler  men 
Than  any  I  have  known ; 


And  all  my  girls  are  fair  and  good, 
From  infancy  to  womanhood.  - 

So  with  few  blessings  men  can  see, 

Or  I  myself  could  name, 
Home,  love,  and  all  that  love  can  bring, 

My  mind  has  power  to  claim, 
And  life  can  never  cease  to  be 
A  good  and  pleasant  thing  to  me. 


CHRISTMAS. 

O  CHILD  !  with  spirit  light  and  gay, 
And  voice  as  pleasant  as  a  bird, 

Yours  is  a  merry  Christmas-day, 
Mine  is  too  happy  for  that  word ! 

Changing  and  evanescent ;  such 

Are  all  your  hopes  and  all  your  fears ; 

My  joy  exceedeth  yours  as  much 
As  doth  the  measure  of  my  years. 

Your  pleasure  every  chance  destroys, 
It  lies  without  your  own  control ; 

While  all  my  best  and  purest  joys 
Have  their  deep  sources  in  my  soul. 

Together,  your  possessions  rest; 

Not  some  below,  and  some  above ; 
I've  learned  more  wisely  to  invest 

The  treasures  of  my  hope  and  love. 

You  change  from  rapture  to  distress 
With  every  change ;  I've  come  to  know 

The  value,  and  the  worthlessness, 
Of  all  that  we  can  get  below. 

So  have  I  learned,  what  yet  you  will, 
When  up  to  mine  your  feet  have  trod ; 

Trust  in  myself,  and  better  still, 
Trust  in  His  creatures,  and  in  God. 


SAIIAH  T.  BOLTON. 


SARAH  T.  BARRITT  was  born  at  Newport,  Kentucky,  in  the  year  1820.  Her 
father  was  the  youngest  son  of  Lemuel  Barritt,  who  distinguished  himself  as  an  offi 
cer  in  the  American  War  for  Independence.  He  was  an  experienced  soldier  when 
the  war  began.  When  Earl  of  Dunmore  was  Governor  of  the  Colony  of  Virginia,  he 
conferred  upon  him  the  command  of  an  exploring  expedition  to  the  junction  of  the 
Alleghany  and  Monongahela  rivers.  Mrs.  Barritt,  Sarah's  mother,  was  a  daughter  of 
one  of  the  Pendletons  of  Virginia,  who  was  a  cousin  to  James  Madison. 

When  Sarah  was  about  three  years  old,  her  father  removed  to  Jennings  county,  In 
diana.  His  cabin  was  one  of  the  first,  around  which  the  wilderness  was  broken,  in 
that  part  of  the  State.  He  was  not  well  satisfied  with  frontier  life,  and  while  Sarah 
was  yet  a  little  girl,  changed  his  residence  to  Madison.  There  his  daughter  was  given 
the  best  education  which  that  town  afforded.  Before  she  was  fourteen  years  of  age, 
she  wrote  verses  of  which  her  friends  were  proud.  When  not  more  than  sixteen 
years  old,  several  of  her  poems  were  published  in  a  newspaper  at  Madison,  which  was 
edited  by  Nathaniel  Bolton.  Writing  for  the  paper  led  to  an  acquaintance  with  the 
printer,  and  that  acquaintance  resulted  in  marriage. 

In  the  early  settlement  of  Indiana,  Mr.  Bolton  had  acquired  valuable  property,  and 
having  assumed  responsibilities  for  others  as  well  as  for  himself,  during  the  financial 
disasters  of  1837-38,  became  much  embarrassed. 

As  described  by  William  C.  Larrabee,  in  a  biographic  notice  of  Mrs.  Bolton  written 
for  the  Ladies'  Repository  at  Cincinnati : 

To  extricate  himself  from  his  difficulties,  he  opened  a  tavern  on  his  farm,  a  short  distance  west 
of  the  city  of  Indianapolis.  Mrs.  Bolton,  then  scarcely  seventeen  years  old,  found  herself  encum 
bered  with  the  care  of  a  large  dairy,  and  a  public  house.  To  aid  as  much  as  possible  in  relieving 
her  husband  from  embarrassment,  she  dispensed  with  help,  and  with  her  own  hands,  often  for  weeks, 
and  months,  performed  all  the  labor  of  the  establishment.  Thus,  for  nearly  two  years,  this  child  of 
genius,  to  whom  song  was  as  natural  as  to  the  bird  of  the  greenwood,  cheerfully  resigned  herself 
to  incessant  toil  and  care,  in  order  that  she  might  aid  her  husband  in  meeting  the  pecuniary  obliga 
tions  which  honesty  or  honor  might  impose.  During  those  long  and  dreary  years,  of  toil  and  self- 
denial,  she  wrote  little  or  nothing.  At  last  the  crisis  was  reached,  the  work  accomplished,  and  the 
bird,  so  long  caged  and  tuneless,  was  again  free  to  soar  into  the  region  of  song. 

When  Mr.  Bolton  was  enabled  to  return  to  Indianapolis,  he  took  possession  of  a 
neat  cottage,  which  has  ever  since  been  the  home  of  the  family.  There  Mrs.  Bolton 
caught  up  her  long-neglected  lyre  and  gracefully  invoked  the  Muse : 

Come  to  me,  gentle  Muse  !  hast  thou  forsaken 

The  heart  that  trembled  in  thy  smile  so  long  ? 
Come!  touch  my  spirit  harp-string,  and  awaken 

The  spell,  the  soul,  the  witchery  of  song. 

Too  long  have  I  been  bound  in  Care's  dominion  ; 
Thou,  only  thou,  canst  break  the  strong  control. 
(367) 


368 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON.  [1840-50. 


Come,  with  thy  radiant  brow  and  starry  pinion, 
And  bring,  again,  the  sunlight  to  my  soul. 

I  met  thee,  fairest  one,  in  childhood's  hours, 

And  wandered  with  thee  over  dale  and  hill, 
Conversing  with  the  stars,  the  streams,  the  flowers ; 

I  loved  thee  then,  and  oh !  I  love  thee  still. 

Come  to  me !  Life  is  all  too  dark  and  dreary 

When  thou,  my  guiding  spirit,  art  not  near ; 
Come  !  I  have  sought  thee  till  my  heart  is  weary, 

And  still  I  watch  and  wait    Appear !  appear  ! 

In  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  poetry,  written  for  the  Columbian  and  Great  West  in 
1850,  William  D.  Gallagher,  alluding  to  this  "Invocation,"  said: 

Her  adjuration  was  answered,  and  since  then  (1845)  the  Muse  has  been  her  constant  companion. 
Some  of  her  poems  are  among  the  most  beautiful  of  the  day,  and  are  entitled  to  an  hon 
orable  place  in  the  poetical  literature  of  her  country She  sings,  not  because  she  has  a 

demand  from  either  the  book  trade  or  the  magazine  trade,  but  because  song  is  the  language  of  her 
heart,  and  she  must  sing,  or  her  heart  must  ache  with  its  suppressed  emotions.  She  explains  all  this, 
truthfully  and  beautifully,  in  the  following  graceful  stanzas  : 

Breezes  from  the  land  of  Eden, 

Come  and  fan  me  with  their  wing, 
Till  my  soul  is  full  of  music, 

And  I  cannot  choose  but  sing. 

When  a  sparkling  fount  is  brimming, 

Let  a  fairy  cloud  bestow 
But  another  drop  of  water, 

Aud  a  wave  will  overflow. 

When  a  thirsty  flower  has  taken 

All  the  dew  its  heart  can  bear, 
It  distributes  the  remainder 

To  the  sunbeam  and  the  air. 

Her  power  of  imitation  is  very  strong.  Of  all  the  attempts  that  have  been  made  to  copy  the 
construction  and  flow  of  Foe's  "  Raven,"  hers  is  the  most  successful  by  far.  It  occurs  in  a  poem  on 
Foe's  Death,  and  one  or  two  of  the  stanzas  are  equal  not  only  to  the  verse  of  the  "  Raven,"  but  also 
to  its  poetry. 

In  1850  the  Grand  Royal  Arch  Chapter  of  Free  and  Accepted  Masons  of  Indiana 
presented  Mrs.  Bolton  a  silver  cup,  as  a  prize  for  an  ode  written  by  her,  and  sung  at 
the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  Masonic  Hall  at  Indianapolis.  The  presentation  ser 
vices  were  public.  The  largest  church  in  Indianapolis  was  crowded.  The  Grand  H. 
P.  stated  the  object  of  the  convocation,  when  James  Morrison  presented  the  cup,  in  an 
appropriate  address.  Mrs.  Bolton  accepted  it,  with  a  few  words  of  thankfulness, 
which  the  State  Sentinel  said  were  "in  the  best  taste,  delivered  in  womanly  style,  clear 
and  effective." 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  of  March,  1852,  we  heard  Mrs.  Bolton  make  a 
speech.  Louis  Kossuth  was  then  the  guest  of  the  State  of  Indiana.  Mrs.  Bolton, 
who  had  written  a  stirring  poem  to  him  in  1849,  manifested  deep  interest  in  his  mis- 


1840-50.]  SARAHT.  BOLTON.  369 

sion  to  America,  and  was  chosen  by  the  ladies  of  Indianapolis  to  present  him  a  purse  con 
taining  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  which  they  had  contributed.  At  the  close  of  an 
address  by  Kossuth,  to  a  large  audience,  on  the  characteristics  of  the  people  of  Hun 
gary,  a  committee  of  ladies,  among  whom  was  the  wife  of  Joseph  Wright,  then  Gov 
ernor  of  Indiana,  was  presented,  and  Mrs.  Bolton,  with  subdued  earnestness  of  feel 
ing,  but  in  clear  tones,  and  with  fitting  elocution,  presented  the  purse,  in  a  few  words 
which  exactly  represented  the  spirit  of  the  last  stanza  of  her  poem  to  the  Magyar : 

And  hast  thou  striven,  with  might  and  mind  in  vain? 

In  vain  ?  ah  !  no,  the  bread  thy  deeds  have  cast 
Upon  the  waters  will  be  found  again  ; 

The  seed  thy  thoughts  have  sown  will  ripen  fast, 
Dewed  by  a  nation's  tears,  and  when  at  last 

The  harvest  whitens,  until  all  are  free, 
True  hearts  will  turn  with  reverence  to  the  past, 

And  from  the  countless  millions  yet  to  be. 
Will  rise  a  paean  song,  brave,  true  Kossuth,  for  thee. 

In  his  response,  Kossuth  said : 

You  say  that  you  have  prayed  for  the  success  of  freedom  in  my  native  land — I  know,  for  your 
self,  you  have  done  more  than  this.  You  have  contributed  to  that  cause  your  genius — a  genius 
which  it  is  the  pleasure  of  your  State  to  honor  and  appreciate.  I  know  that  there  is  a  chord  in  the 
tender  heart  of  woman  that  ever  responds  to  justice,  and  that  her  impulses  are  against  oppression 
in  every  land.  I  entreat  you  to  go  on  and  bestow  your  sympathy  even  as  the  mother  bestows  her 
love  on  her  child.  Human  liberty  is  well  worthy  of  a  mother's  fostering  care. 

Mr.  Bolton  was  appointed  consul  to  Geneva,  Switzerland,  by  President  Pierce,  in 
the  spring  of  1855.  Mrs.  Bolton  and  her  daughter,  Sallie  Ada,  accompanied  him  to 
Europe.  They  spent  the  summer  of  1856  in  Italy,  and  the  autumn  of  the  same  year 
in  Germany.  In  the  spring  of  1857  Mrs.  Bolton  and  daughter  returned  to  Indiana. 
They  had  been  home  but  a  few  weeks,  when  a  letter  was  received  from  Mr.  Bolton, 
which  stated  that  he  had  been  ill,  but  was  convalescent.  Mrs.  Bolton  had  serious  fore 
bodings,  and  before  sunrise,  on  the  morning  after  the  letter  had  been  read,  was  on  her 
way  back  to  Switzerland  alone.  She  found  her  husband  attending  to  his  accustomed 
duties,  when  she  reached  Geneva,  but  his  health  was  not  fully  restored.  In  the  spring 
of  1858  he  returned  with  Mrs.  Bolton  to  Indianapolis.  His  family  and  friends  enter 
tained  strong  hope  that,  in  the  climate  to  which  he  had  nearly  all  his  life  been  accus 
tomed,  he  would  regain  his  health.  The  hope  was  vain.  He  died,  in  the  fifty-sixth 
year  of  his  age,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  November,  1858.  Mr.  Bolton  was  a  man  of 
important  influence  in  Indiana.  He  started  the  first  paper  published  at  Indianapolis ; 
was  an  officer  of  the  Legislature,  several  terms — had  been  Register  of  the  Land-office, 
and  for  many  years  State  Librarian. 

Mrs.  Bolton,  with  a  son  and  daughter,  resides  still  at  Indianapolis.  She  possesses 
property  which  affords  her  family  competent  support. 

While  in  Europe,  Mrs.  Bolton  wrote  graphic  letters  for  the  Cincinnati  Commercial, 
and  contributed  numerous  poems  to  its  columns  and  to  those  of  the  New  York  Home 
Journal,  which  were  suggested  by  observations  or  experiences  in  Switzerland.  She 

24 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON. 


[1840-50. 


publishes  rarely  now.     Her  poems  have  never  been  collected.     We  trust  she  will  col 
lect  them,  and,  before  another  year  has  elapsed,  gratify  her  friends  with  a  volume. 

Mrs.  Bolton  was  well  described  in  an  article  written  for  the  New  York  Home  Jour 
nal,  in  1850,  by  Robert  Dale  Owen: 

With  a  finely  formed  head,  and  ample  intellectual  forehead,  her  countenance,  without  boasting 
regularity  of  feature,  is  of  highly  pleasing  expression,  especially  when  lighted  up,  as  in  conversa 
tion  it  usually  is,  by  the  bright  and  cheerful  spirit  within.  Her  manners  are  frank,  lively  and 
winning,  with  little  of  conventional  form  and  much  of  genuine  propriety  about  them. 

The  freedom  from  conventional  form  thus  ascribed  to  Mrs.  Bolton's  manners,  is  a 
characteristic  arising  from  the  independence  and  force  of  character  displayed  when  she 
abandoned  poetic  pleasures  for  domestic  duties,  and  the  spirit  which  then  animated  her, 
a  spirit  worthy  of  her  patriotic  ancestors,  breathes  nobly  in  many  of  her  poems. 


AWAKE  TO  EFFORT. 

AWAKE  to  effort,  while  the  day  is  shining, 

The  time  to  labor  will  not  always  last, 
And  no  regret,  repentance  or  repining 

Can  bring  to  us  again  the  buried  past. 

The  silent  sands  of  life  are  falling  fast ; 
Time  tells  our  busy  pulses,  one  by  one, 

And  shall  our  work,  so  needful  and  so 

vast, 

Be  all  completed,  or  but  just  begun 
When  twilight  shadows  vail  life's  dim,  de 
parting  sun  ? 

What  duties  have  our  idle  hands  neglected  ? 
What  useful  lessons  have  we  learned 

and  taught  ? 
What  warmth,   what   radiance   have  our 

hearts  reflected ; 
What  rich  and  rare  materials  have  we 

brought 

For  deep  investigation,  earnest  thought ; 
Concealed   within   the   soul's  unfathomed 

mine, 

How  many  a  sparkling  gem  remains  un- 
wrought, 


That  industry  might    place  on  learning's 

shrine, 
Or  lavish  on  the  world,  to  further  God's 

design. 

To  effort!  ye  whom  God  has  nobly  gifted 
With  that   prevailing   power,   undying 

song, 

For  human  good  let  every  pen  be  lifted, 
For   human   good  let   every   heart   be 

strong. 

Is  there  no  crying  sin,  no  grievous  wrong 
That  ye  may  help  to  weaken  or  repress  ? 
In  wayside  hut  and  hovel,  midst    the 

throng, 

Downtrodden  by  privation  and  distress, 
Is  there  no  stricken  heart  that  ye  can  cheer 
and  bless  ? 

Sing  idle  lays  to  idle  harps  no  longer, 
Go!  peal   an   anthem   at   the   gate   of 

Heaven ; 

Exertion  makes  the  fainting  spirit  stronger. 
Sing,  till    the  bonds  of  ignorance  are 

riven, 

Till  dark  oppression  from  the  earth  is 
driven. 


[1840-50 


SARAH    T.    BOLTON. 


371 


Sing,  till  from  every  land  and  every  sea 
One  universal  triumph  song  is  given, 
To  hail  the  long-expected  jubilee, 
When  every  bond  is  broke  and  every  vas 
sal  free. 

And  ye,  whose  birthright  is  the  glorious 

dower 

Of  eloquence  to  thrill  the  immortal  soul 
Use  not  unwisely  the  transcendant  power, 
To  waken,  guide,  restrain,  direct,  control 
The  heart's  deep,  deep  emotions ;  let  the 

goal 
Of  your  ambition  be  a  mind  enshrined 

By  love  and  gratitude  within  the  scroll, 
Where  generations  yet  unborn  shall  find 
The  deathless  deeds  of  those  who  loved 
and  blessed  mankind. 

Go !   use  the  weighty  energies  that  slum 

ber 
Unknown,  unnumber'd   in  the   world's 

great  heart ; 

Remove  the  stubborn  errors  that  encumber 

The  fields  of  science,  literature  and  art. 

Rend  superstition's  darkening  vail  apart, 

And  hurl  to  earth  blind  bigotry,  the  ban 

From  which  a  thousand  grievous  evils 

start 
To  thwart   and  mar  the   great  Creator's 

plan, 

And  break  the  ties  that  bind  the  brother 
hood  of  man. 

And  ye  who  sit  aloft  in  earth's  high  places 
Perchance,  amid  your  wealth,  you  scarce 
ly  know 
That   want  and  woe  are  leaving   fearful 

traces 

Upon  the  toiling  multitude  below. 
From  your  abundance  can  ye  not  bestow 
A  mite  to  smooth  the   thorny  paths  they 

tread  ? 

Have  ye  no  sympathy  with  human  woe? 
No  ray  of  blessed  hope  and  joy  to  shed 
Upon  the  weary  hearts  that  pine  and  toil 
for  bread  ? 


Amid  the  gorgeous  splendor  that  bedizens 

Your  palaces,  no  longer  idly  stand, 
While  dens  of  wickedness  and  loathsome 

prisons 
Arise,  like  blighting  plague-spots,  o'er 

the  land. 
Go !  speak  a  word  and  lend  a  helping 

hand 

To  rescue  men  from  degradation's  thrall, 
Nor  deem  a  just  and  righteous  God  hath 

banned 
The  toiling  millions,  while  the  rain-drops 

fall, 

And  blessed  sunbeams  shine   alike  from 
heaven  for  all. 

The  smallest  bark,  on  life's   tempestuous 

ocean, 

Will  leave  a  track  behind,  forevermore  ; 
The  lightest  wave  of  influence,  set  in  mo 
tion, 

Extends  and  widens  to  the  eternal  shore. 
We  should  be  wary,  then,  who  go  before 
A  myriad  yet  to  be,  and  we  should  take 
Our  bearing  carefully,  where  breakers 

roar 

And  fearful  tempests  gather  ;  one  mistake 
May  wreck  unnumbered  barks  that  follow 
in  our  wake. 


PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOE. 

VOYAGER  upon  life's  sea, 

To  yourself  be  true, 
And  where'er  your  lot  may  be, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 
Never,  though  the  winds  may  rave, 

Falter  nor  look  back; 
But  upon  the  darkest  wave 

Leave  a  shining  track. 

Nobly  dare  the  wildest  storm, 
Stem  the  hardest  gale, 


372 


SARAH    T.    BOLTON. 


[1840-50. 


Brave  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm, 

You  will  never  fail. 
When  the  world  is  cold  and  dark, 

Keep  an  aim  in  view; 
And  toward  the  beacon-mark 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Every  wave  that  bears  you  on 

To  the  silent  shore, 
From  its  sunny  source  has  gone 

To  return  no  more. 
Then  let  not  an  hour's  delay 

Cheat  you  of  your  due ; 
But,  while  it  is  called  to-day, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

If  your  birth  denies  you  wealth, 

Lofty  state  and  power, 
Honest  fame  and  hardy  health 

Are  a  better  dower. 
But  if  these  will  not  suffice, 

Golden  gain  pursue ; 
And  to  gain  the  glittering  prize, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Would  you  wrest  the  wreath  of  fame 

From  the  hand  of  fate? 
Would  you  write  a  deathless  name 

With  the  good  and  great? 
Would  you  bless  your  fellow-men? 

Heart  and  soul  imbue 
With  the  holy  task,  and  then 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Would  you  crush  the  tyrant  wrong, 

In  the  world's  free  fight? 
With  a  spirit  brave  and  strong, 

Battle  for  the  right. 
And  to  break  the  chains  that  bind 

The  many  to  the  few — 
To  enfranchise  slavish  mind — 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Nothing  great  is  lightly  won, 

Nothing  won  is  lost ; 
Every  good  deed,  nobly  done, 

Will  repay  the  cost. 


Leave  to  Heaven,  in  humble  trust, 

All  you  will  to  do; 
But  if  you  succeed,  you  must 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 


CALL  THE  ROLL. 

WHO  is  ready  for  the  onset — 

Who  with  helmet,  sword  and  shield, 
Will  go  forth  to  conquer  Error, 

On  life's  battle-field? 
Who  will  strike  at  Superstition, 

In  his  goblin-haunted  cell, 
And  unloose  the  myriad  victims 

Fettered  by  his  spell? 

Call  the  roll. 

Who  will  strive,  on  God  relying, 

With  unwav'ring  faith  and  hope, 
To  pull  down  the  gory  scaffold, 

And  the  gallows-rope? 
Who  will  break  the  yoke  of  bondage, 

And  unbar  the  prison  door, 
Saying  to  the  trembling  sinner, 

"Go  and  sin  no  more?" 

Call  the  roll. 

Who,  forgetting  self,  will  listen 

To  sweet  charity's  appeal — 
Who  will  labor  for  the  lowly 

With  untiring  zeal? 
Casting  bread  upon  the  waters, 

Not  for  human  praise, 
Trusting  heaven  again  to  find  it, 

After  many  days? 

Call  the  roll. 

Who  will  put  what  God  has  given 
Wisely  to  the  noblest  use; 

Who  will  clothe  the  homeless  orphan, 
Fill  the  widow's  cruse, 

And,  like  him  of  old  Samaria, 
Help  the  stranger  in  his  need, 


1840-50.] 


SARAH    T.    BOLTON. 


373 


Reckless  of  his  name  and  nation, 
Reckless  of  his  creed? 

Call  the  roll. 

Who,  that  finds  a  child  of  sorrow, 

Heir  to  penury  and  woe, 
Will  not  tarry  to  inquire 

What  has  made  them  so, 
Ere  he  freely  shares  a  pittance 

From  his  meager,  hard-earned  store, 
Or  bestows  a  cup  of  water, 

If  he  can  no  more? 

Call  the  roll. 

Who,  when  slander's  tongue  is  busy 

With  an  absent  neighbor's  name, 
Will  excuse  the  faults  and  failings, 

And  defend  his  fame? 
Who  will  view  poor  human  nature 

Only  on  the  brighest  side, 
Leaving  God  to  judge  the  evil 

Charity  would  hide? 

Call  the  roll. 


WHERE  IS  THY  HOME? 

WHERE   is  thy  home?     Where   summer 

skies  are  flinging 
Rich,  mellow  light  o'er  some  sea-girded 

isle — 
Where,  in  the  orange-groves,  bright  birds 

are  singing, 

And  stars  are  wooing  the  flowers  with 
their  smile; 

Where  the  soft  south  wind  strays 

And  palm-leaves  quiver, 
Through  the  long  pleasant  days, 
By  some  bright  river — 
Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home  ?     Where  gallant  men 

are  braving 

Danger  and   death  on  the  red  battle- 
plain — 

Where,  in  the  cannon's    smoke,  banners 
are  waving, 


And    the  wild  war-horse  is  trampling 
the  slain; 

Where  the  dead  soldier  sleeps — 

Wrapped  in  his  glory ; 
Where  the  cold  night  dew  steeps 
Faces  all  gory — 

Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home?     Where  ivy-wreaths 

are  climbing 
Over   old    ruins   all    moss-grown    and 

gray- 
Where,   at   the   vesper   hour,  deep   bells 

a-chiming, 

Summon  the  toil-weary  spirit  to  pray — 
Where,  as  the  darkness  falls, 

Over  the  gloaming, 
Through  the  dim  cloister  halls 
Pale  ghosts  are  roaming — 
Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home?     Where   mountain 

waves  are  swelling, 

Over  the  caves  of  the  fathomless  deep — 
Where,  in  their  coral  bowers,  Nereids  are 

knelling 

Dirges     where    beauty    and     chivalry 
sleep — 

Where  the  storm's  lurid  light, 

Fitfully  gleaming, 
Startles  at  dead  of  night, 
Men  from  their  dreaming — 
Is  thy  home  there? 

No,  dearest,  no — Where  pleasant  words 

are  spoken, 
In   a   sweet    cottage    half    hidden    by 

flowers, 
Where  the  dear  household  band  never  is 

broken, 

Where   hope  and   happiness  wing  the 
glad  hours — 

From  care  and  strife  apart, 

Never  more  roving, 
In  my  adoring  heart, 
Faithful  and  loving — 
There  is  thy  home. 


374 


SARAH    T.    BOLTON. 


[1840-50. 


IF  I  WERE  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  BRIGHT 
EST  STAR. 

IF  I  were  the  light  of  the  brightest  star, 

That  burns  in  the  zenith  now, 
I  would  tremble  down  from  my  home  afar, 

To  kiss  thy  radiant  brow. 
If  I  were  the  breath  of  a  fragrant  flower, 

"With  a  viewless  wing  and  free, 
I  would  steal  away  from  the  fairest  bower, 

And  live,  love,  but  for  thee. 

If  I  were  the  soul  of  bewitching  song, 

With  a  moving,  melting  tone, 
I  would  float  from  the  gay  and  thoughtless 
throng, 

And  soothe  thy  soul  alone. 
If  I  were  a  charm,  by  fairy  wrought, 

I  would  bind  thee  with  a  sign ; 
And  never  again  should  a  gloomy  thought 

O'ershadow  thy  spirit's  shrine. 

If  I  were  a  memory,  past  alloy, 

I  would  linger  where  thou  art ; 
If  I  were  a  thought  of  abiding  joy, 

I  would  nestle  in  thy  heart. 
If  I  were  a  hope,  with  the  magic  light 

That  makes  the  future  fair, 
I  would  make  thy  path  on  the  earth  as 
bright 

As  the  paths  of  angels  are. 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  STARLIGHT. 

FROM  its  home  on  high,  to  a  gentle  flower, 
That  bloomed  in  a  lonely  grove, 

The  starlight  came  at  the  twilight  hour, 
And  whispered  a  tale  of  love. 

Then  the  blossom's  heart  so  still  and  cold, 

Grew  warm  to  its  silent  core, 
And  gave  out  perfume,  from  its  inmost  fold, 

It  never  exhaled  before. 


And  the  blossom  slept  through  the  summer 
night, 

In  the  smile  of  the  angel-ray, 
And  the  morn  arose  with  its  garish  light, 

And  the  soft  one  stole  away. 

Then  the  zephyr  wooed,  as  he  wandered  by 
Where  the  gentle  floweret  grew, 

But  she  gave  no  heed  to  his  plaintive  sigh; 
Her  heart  to  its  love  was  true. 

And  the  sunbeam  came,  with  a  lover's  art, 

To  caress  the  flower  in  vain ; 
She  folded  her  sweets  in  her  thrilling  heart 

Till  the  starlight  came  again. 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

TOLL,  toll,  toll, 
Where  the  winter  winds  are  sighing ; 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 
Where  the  somber  clouds  are  flying ; 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 
A  deeper,  sadder  knoll, — 
Than  sounds  for  a  passing  soul, — 
Should  tell  of  the  Old  Year,  dying. 
Spirits  of  beauty  and  light, 
Goblins  of  darkness  and  night, 
From  your  sunny  paths,  in  the  azure  sky, 
From  the  Stygian  shores,  where  the  shad 
ows  lie, 

From  your  coral  homes,  in  the  ocean  caves, 
From  the  frigid  north,  where  the  tempest 
raves, 

Come  to  the  pale  one  dying. 
Hark !  to  the  falling  of  phantom  feet, 

Beat,  beat,  beat,  beat, 
Like  the  solemn  sounds,  when  the  surges 

meet, 

On  the  shores  of  a  mighty  river — 
They  are  folding  the  dead  in  his  winding- 
sheet, 
To  bear  him  away  forever. 


1840-50.] 


SARAH    T.  BOLTON. 


375 


A  rush  of  wings  on  the  midnight  wind — 

The  fall  of  a  shadowy  portal — 
And  the  good  Old  Year,  so  true  and  kind, 
Passed  to  his  rest,  but  left  behind 
The  record  of  deeds  immortal. 


IN  MY  SLEEP  I  HAD  A  VISION. 

IN  my  sleep  I  had  a  vision, 

Of  a  brighter  world  than  this ; 
Of  a  realm,  whose  Vales  Elysian, 

Wooed  the  soul  to  endless  bliss. 
Hope  could  sing  of  nothing  fairer 

Than  this  soft,  bewitching  isle ; 
Fancy  dreamed  of  nothing  rarer, 

And  she  furled  her  wings  awhile. 

It  had  crystal  streams  and  fountains, 

Glens  and  grottos,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 

Lay  on  violets,  asleep. 
It  had  labyrinths  of  flowers, 

Arching  'neath  a  summer  sky, 
And  to  tread  those  fairy  bowers 

There  were  only  thou  and  I — 

Thou  and  I  together  straying 

Through  each  shady  glen  and  grove ; 
Two  enraptured  souls  a-Maying, 

In  the  Eden-land  of  love. 
Then  our  hearts  forgot  the  sorrow, 

Toil  and  care  of  by -gone  years, 
And  the  prospect  of  the  morrow 

Brought  us  neither  doubts  nor  fears. 

If  a  memory  came  to  darken 

Those  bright  moments  all  our  own, 
Trusting  love  refused  to  hearken 

To  the  Sybil's  chiding  tone. 
Joy  that  would  not  brook  concealing, 

From  thine  eyes  like  sunlight  stole, 
And  the  iris  wreath  of  feeling 

Was  the  cestus  of  my  soul. 


Words  of  love,  though  wild  and  burning, 

Seemed  but  trite  and  feeble  things, 
And  I  learned  thy  fond  heart's  yearning, 

By  the  trembling  of  its  strings. 
Never  can  our  waking  senses 

Such  ecstatic  joy  receive, 
For  an  hour  like  this  condenses 

All  the  pleasure  life  can  give. 


MONT  BLANC. 

O  WORSHIPER  in  heaven's  far  courts !  sub 
lime 
Gleams  thy  white  forehead,  bound  with 

purple  air. 
Thou  art  coeval  with  old  gray-haired  Time, 

Yet  thy  colossal  features  are  as  fair 
As   when    the  Omniscient  set   his  signet 

there. 

Wrapped  in  a  royal  robe,  that  human  art 
Could  never  weave,  nor  mortal  monarch 

wear, 

Thou  sitt'st  enthroned  in  majesty  apart, 
Folding  eternal  rest  and   silence  in  thy 
heart. 

When  the  Almighty  Mind  went  forth,  and 

wrought 
Upon    the   formless   waters;    when  he 

hung 
New  worlds  on  their  mysterious  paths,  and 

brought 
Light  out  of  brooding  darkness;  when 

the  young, 
Fair  earth  at   his   command   from  chaos 

sprung 

To  join  the  universal  jubilee ; 
When  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  his  triumphs 

sung, 

God  left  his  footsteps  on  the  sounding  sea, 
And  wrote  his  glorious  name,  proud  mon 
ument,  on  thee : 


176 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON. 


[1840-50. 


Tell  us,  earth-born  companion  of  the  stars, 
Hast   thou   beheld   when  worlds  were 

wrecked  and  riven  ? 

Hast  seen  wild  comets  in  their  red  simars 
O'er  the  far  fields  of  space  at  random 

driven  ? 

Seest  thou  the  angels  at  the  gate  of  heaven  ? 
Perchance  they  lend  that  glory  to  thy 

brow, 

Which  burns  and  sparkles  there  this  sum 
mer  even ! 
Perchance  their  anthems  float   around 

thee  now — 

They  worship  God  alway,  and  so,  Mont 
Blanc,  dost  thou. 

Solemn  evangel  of  almighty  power, 

The  pillars  of  the  earth   support   thy 

throne ; 

Ages  unknown,  unnumbered,  are  thy  dower, 
Sunlight  thy  crown,  the  clouds  of  heaven 

thy  zone. 

Spires,  columns,  turrets,  lofty  and  alone ; 
Snow-fields,  where  never  bird  nor  beast 

abode ; 

Caverns  unmeasured,  fastnesses  unknown ; 
Glaciers  where  human  feet  have  never 

trod — 

Ye  are  the  visible  throne,  the  dwelling- 
place  of  God. 

What  is  the  measure  of  our  threescore 

years — 

What  the  duration  of  our  toil  and  care? 

What  are  our  aspirations,  hopes,  and  fears, 

The  joys  we  prize,  the  ills  we  needs  must 

bear — 
The  earthly  goals  we  win,  the  deeds  we 

dare? 

Our  life  is  but  a  breath,  a  smile,  a  sigh ; 

We  go,  and  Time  records  not  that  we  were ; 

But  thou  will  lift  thy  giant  brow  on  high, 

Till  Time's  last  hour  is  knolled,  lost  in 

eternity. 

And  we,  beholding  thee,  do  turn  aside 
From  all  the  little  idols  we  have  wrought ; 


Self-love,  ambition,  wealth,  fame,   power 

and  pride 
Keep  silence  before  thee ;  and  we  are 

taught 

A  nobler  aim,  a  more  enduring  thought. 
Our  souls  are  touched  by  the  celestial 

fire 
That   glows   on   holier    altars;    what   we 

sought 
With  thought,  heart,  mind,  seems  dust, 

and  we  aspire 

To  win  some  sure  good,  some  guerdon  ho 
lier,  higher. 

Thou  art  an  altar,  where  the  human  soul 
Pays  God  the  tribute  of  its  prayer  and 

praise ; 

Feelings,  emotions,  passing  all  control 
Are  born  of  thee ;  wondering,  subdued, 

we  gaze, 

Till  soul  and  sense  are  lost  in  still  amaze, 
And   the  full-gushing  heart   forgets  to 

beat. 

We  feel  the  invisible,  we  seem  to  raise 
The   inner   vail,   to   stand    where   two 

worlds  meet, 

Entranced,  bewildered,  rapt,  adoring  at  thy 
feet. 


LAKE  LEMAN. 

THOU  art  beautiful,  Lake  Leman, 

When  thy  starry  waves  are  sleeping, 
Sleeping  in  the  fond  embraces 

Of  the  summer  moon's  soft  light ; 
When  thy  waters  seem  to  listen 

To  the  blue  Rhone,  sadly  weeping 
As  she  parts  from  thee  forever, 

Murmuring  tenderly,  Good-night ! 

Thou  art  glorious,  when  the  morning, 

Nature's  radiant  evangel, 
Lays  her  cheek  upon  thy  bosom, 

With  her  tresses  all  undone ; 


]  81 0-50.] 


SARAH    T.    BOLTON. 


377 


When  the  snowy  mists  that  boun4  thee 
Like  the  drapery  of  an  angel, 

Are  woven  into  rainbows, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  sun. 

Thou  art  peerless,  when  the  twilight 

Of  a  quiet  summer  even 
Binds  the  eastern  sky  with  shadows, 

As  the  day  goes  down  to  rest ; 
When  the  gold  and  crimson  curtains, 

Looped  around  the  gates  of  heaven, 
And  the  pathway  of  the  angels 

Are  painted  on  thy  breast. 

Thou  art  lovely,  when  the  vine-hills 

Are  pictured  in  thy  waters ; 
Or  when  storm-winds  from  the  Jura 

Crown  thy  waves  with  starry  foam ; 
And  the  children  of  thy  valleys, 

Helvetia's  sons  and  daughters, 
When  they  leave  thee,  lake  of  beauty, 

Never  find  another  home. 

But  I  dwell  by  thee  a  stranger, 

Of  my  exile  grown  so  weary 
That  my  soul  is  sick  with  sighing, 

Waiting,  longing  to  depart ; 
And  the  music  of  thy  voices 

Makes  me  homesick,  makes  me  dreary ; 
0 !  I  cannot  learn  to  love  thee, 

While  my  own  land  fills  my  heart. 

I  have  climbed  the  snow-capped  mount 
ains, 

Sailed  on  many  a  storied  river, 
And  brushed  the  dust  of  ages 

From  gray  monuments  sublime; 
I  have  seen  the  grand  old  pictures 

That  the  world  enshrines  forever, 
And  the  statues  that  the  masters 

Left  along  the  paths  of  Time. 

But  my  pilgrim  feet  are  weary, 
And  my  spirit  dim  with  dreaming 

Where  the  long,  dead  Past  has  written 
Misty,  hieroglyphic  lore ; 


In  a  land  whose  pulses  slumber, 

Or  only  beat  in  seeming, 
And  the  pathway  of  the  Caesars 

Is  a  ruin  evermore. 

Bear  me  back,  0  mighty  ocean ! 

From  this  Old  World,  gray  and  gory, 
To  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 

Far  beyond  thy  stormy  waves ; 
To  the  land  that  Freedom  fostered 

To  gigantic  strength  and  glory, 
To  my  home-land,  with  its  loved  ones, 

And  its  unforgotten  graves. 

Give  me  back  my  little  cottage, 

And  the  dear  old  trees  I  planted, 
And  the  common,  simple  blossoms 

That  bloomed  around  my  door ; 
And  the  old,  familiar  home-songs 

That  my  children's  voices  chanted, 
And  the  few  who  used  to  love  me, 

And  my  heart  will  ask  no  more. 


HOPE  ON,  HOPE  EVER. 

HOPE  on,  hope  ever ;  if  thy  lot 

Be  forlorn  and  lowly, 
Thou  mayst  gain  a  brighter  spot, 

Though  thy  steps  move  slowly. 
Reckless  of  the  rich  man's  scorn, 

On  thyself  relying, 
Strive  to  win,  though  lowly  born, 

Name,  renown  undying. 
In  the  path  that  heaven  assigned, 

Rest  thee  idly  never ; 
Work  with  might  and  soul  and  mind, 

And  hope  on,  hope  ever. 

Hope  on,  hope  ever,  while  the  day 

On  thy  path  is  shining ; 
Let  no  moment  bear  away 

Murmurs  of  repining. 


SIDNEY   DYER. 


SIDNEY  DYER  was,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  years,  a  "  bold  drummer  boy "  in  the 
American  army.  He  was  then  ignorant  of  the  rudiments  of  a  common  English  edu 
cation.  He  was  a  sprightly,  intelligent  boy,  however,  and  attracted  the  notice  of  a 
benevolent  woman,  through  whose  persuasion  he  was  induced  to  give  to  study  those 
hours  which  his  companions  spent  in  idleness  or  dissipation.  Kind  influences  clus 
tered  around  him,  as  he  became  more  and  more  deeply  interested  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge,  and,  at  length,  he  determined  to  consecrate  himself  to  the  Christian  min 
istry.  He  has  celebrated  in  pleasant  lines  these  important  changes  in  his  pursuits  and 

purposes : 

I  mingled  with  the  coarse  and  rude, 

And  heard  the  ribald  jest ; 
And  thought  to  die  as  they  will  die, 

Unhonored  and  unblessed. 

But  there  was  one  who  saw  my  grief, 

Just  bordering  on  despair  ; 
She  sought  me  out,  and  angel-like, 

Made  all  my  woes  her  care. 

Oh  !  then  my  soul  o'erflowed  with  bliss, 

My  step  was  light  and  free, 
While  my  full  heart  with  joyance  beat 

Its  first  glad  "  Reveille !  " 

My  feet  were  turned  on  wisdom's  "  March ! " 

And  on  my  raptured  sight 
The  dawning  broke,  and  since  that  hour 

Has  poured  increasing  light. 

When  now  I  think  of  "  auld  lang  syne," 

Of  present,  past  employ, 
I  scarce  can  make  myself  believe 

I  was  that  "  Drummer  Boy." 

Mr.  Dyer  connected  himself  with  the  Baptist  Church,  and,  we  believe,  began  his 
career  as  a  preacher  in  Kentucky,  about  the  year  1845.  In  1849  he  published  a  vol 
ume  of  poems*  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  and,  in  1855,  consented  to  the  publication  of 
"  An  Olio  of  Love  and  Song,"  delivered  by  him  before  the  Athenian  Society  of  In 
diana  University,  on  the  thirty-first  day  of  July,  in  that  year.  Since  1850,  Mr.  Dyer 
ha-  been  the  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  Church  of  Indianapolis.  He  has  written  a 
large  number  of  very  popular  songs.  He  is  quite  successful  in  expressing  domestic 
sentiments  and  emotions  in  words  well-adapted  to  music,  and  he  has  turned  a  number 
of  hopeful  proverbs  to  happy  advantage  in  songs  which  have  been  sung  in  all  parts 
of  our  country. 

«  Voices  of  Nature,  and  Thoughts  in  Rhyme.    Louisville  :  J.  V.  Cowling  and  G.  C.  Davies,  1849.    12mo,  pp.  156. 

(  378  ) 


1840-50.] 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


379 


SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 

I'M  the  bright  sunbeam ! 

I  flit  as  a  dream, 
Which  gently  comes  down  from  the  skies 

When  sleep  with  delight, 

Holds  infancy  bright, 
To  close  up  its  soft  silken  eyes. 

O'er  lake  and  o'er  sea, 

As  tripping  with  glee, 
Reflected  my  beauties  I  trace ; 

So  rapt  is  the  wave, 

As  lightly  I  lave, 
It  trembles  as  still  we  embrace. 

I  lie  in  the  rose, 

When  freshly  unclose 
Its  leaves  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze ; 

I  skip  o'er  the  plain, 

And  ripe  waving  grain, 
Or  glide  o'er  the  leaves  of  the  trees. 

I  shun  not  the  cot, 

Where  poverty's  lot 
Holds  often  the  wise  and  the  good ; 

Through  thatch  and  through  pane, 

I  leap  in  again, 
A  gift  all  unsullied  from  God. 

I  shrink  from  the  halls, 

And  thick  curtained  walls, 
Where  wealth  lies  in  sorrow  all  day ; 

But  in  at  the  door 

Where  dwelleth  the  poor, 
A  daily  warm  visit  I  pay. 

I  never  will  shrink 

From  the  cataract's  brink, 
But  paint  on  its  moisture  my  bow ; 

And  down  on  the  stream 

With  radiance  gleam, 
As  stars  flashing  up  from  below. 

On  Death's  pallid  cheek 
I  often  will  seek 


To  glow  with  the  beauty  of  even ; 

But  finding  has  fled 

The  soul  of  the  dead, 
Will  mount  with  it  gladly  to  heaven ! 

The  night  for  awhile 

May  shadow  my  smile, 
Then  Nature  in  sorrow  will  reek ; 

I'll  come  o'er  the  lawn 

At  first  peep  of  dawn, 
And  wipe  each  sad  trace  from  its  cheek. 

In  each  opened  grave 

I'll  pour  in  my  wave, 
To  show  there  is  light  in  the  tomb ; 

And  smiling  will  say, 

Come,  this  is  the  way 
To  where  I  eternally  bloom  ! 


THE  EVENING  ZEPHYR. 

'Tis  born  within  a  buttercup, 

And  scented  by  a  rose ; 
It  lives  where  trellised  vine  climbs  up, 

And  murmuring  streamlet  flows. 

It  steals  a  kiss  from  every  flower, 

And  treads,  with  airy  feet, 
Its  noiseless  path  from  wood  to  bower, 

Where  sighing  lovers  meet. 

In  graceful  waves  it  moves  the  bough 

And  undulating  grain, 
While  Echo's  voice,  with  silvery  flow, 

Murmurs  a  soft  refrain. 

And  at  the  gorgeous  verge  of  day 

It  wings  its  evening  flight, 
Where  sleeping  valleys  stretch  away 

In  pensive,  dreamy  light. 

It  wantons  with  each  fair  one's  cheek, 

Untwists  the  truant  curl, 
And  nestling  in  some  bosom  meek, 

Its  viewless  wings  will  furl. 


380 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


[1840-50. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  WIFE. 

OH  !  how  I  long  to  meet  thee,  love, 

Our  arms  to  fondly  twine, 
With  lip  to  lip,  and  heart  to  heart, 

As  when  I  called  thee  mine. 
Then  hopes  were  clustering  thick  around, 

Like  dew-gems  on  the  spray, 
For  life  had  cast  no  darkling  shade, 

Across  our  flowery  way. 

Oh !  how  I  long  to  meet  thee,  love, 

As  when  thy  love  for  me, 
Unclasped  thee  from  a  mother's  neck, 

A  doating  father's  knee, 
And  won  thy  trembling  heart  from  home, 

Thy  love  and  faith  to  twine 
In  closer  folds  around  a  heart, 

That  ne'er  was  worthy  thine ! 

Oh !  how  I  long  to  meet  thee,  love, 

As  by  the  river's  side, 
We  met  to  stray  at  twilight's  hour, 

And  watch  the  silvery  tide ; 
How  soon  it  was  forgotten,  love, 

And  left  to  glide  unseen, 
That  we  might  view  love's  stainless  wave, 

That  flowed  our  hearts  between. 

Oh  !  how  I  long  to  greet  thee,  love, 

As  when  beneath  the  hill, 
We  sat  around  our  cottage  hearth, 

And  drank  of  bliss  our  fill ; 
Ah !  'twas  an  hour  too  bright  to  last, 

Its  glow  soon  passed  away, 
Misfortune's  cloud  hath  intervened, 

And  overcast  our  way. 

But  we  shall  meet  again,  my  love, 

And  find  affection's  power 
Can  quick  dispel  each  darksome  cloud, 

And  glow  as  in  youth's  hour. 
Ah !  sweeter  then  shall  be  the  voice 

Of  love's  enchanting  strain, 
And  all  those  fondly  cherished  scenes, — 

We'll  live  them  o'er  again  ! 


THE  LEAF'S  COMPLAINT. 

A  LEAF,  that  chanced  to  fall  one  day, 

Down  by  the  garden  wall, 
Began  to  mourn,  in  pensive  strains, 

Its  sad,  untimely  fall. 

'  And  must  I  lie  on  this  cold  earth, 

With  dying  things  around, 
And  lose  the  bloom  which  graced  my  youth, 

And  sink  into  the  ground  ? 

My  parent  was  yon  monarch  tree, 
The  loftiest  top  in  air ; 
And  though  I  am  so  lowly  now, 
'Twas  proud  to  have  me  there. 

"  The  birds  oft  lit  upon  my  stem, 

Their  sweetest  songs  to  sing, 
And  ever  called,  me  in  their  lays, 

The  fairest  leaf  of  Spring. 

"  The  dews  of  night  lay  on  my  breast, 
And  drank  the  fragrance  there, 

Which  morning's  orient  beams  exhaled, 
Perfuming  all  the  air. 

"  When  Sol's  fierce  rays  had  scorched  my 
charms, 

And  droopingly  I  hung, 
Refreshing  showers  came  to  my  aid, 

And  coolness  round  me  flung. 

"  Soft  zephyrs  rocked  my  native  spray, 

And  vigils  round  me  kept, 
When  all  the  stars  came  out  at  night, 

To  smile  as  Nature  slept. 

"  Aye,  when  I  grew  and  proudly  waved 

Upon  my  native  bough, 
All  came  obsequious  to  my  will, 

But  all  fors-ake  me  now  ! 

"  The  winds  that  came  so  soft  and  bland 

To  lull  me  to  repose, 
Now  heap  vile  rubbish  on  my  form, 

With  every  breath  that  blows. 


1840-50.] 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


381 


"  The  rains,  that  once  refreshing  came 

As  nectar  from  the  gods, 
Now  seek  to  press  me  lower  still, 

Beneath  these  filthy  clods. 

u  The  gentle  dews,  once  soft  and  mild, 
Now  chill  my  shrinking  form ; 

And  here  I  lie,  a  friendless  one, 
For  vilest  things  to  scorn  ! 

"  E'en  vulgar  weeds,  so  lately  proud 

To  dwell  beneath  my  shade, 
Now  rudely  cry  '  Away !  away  ! ' 

If  near  their  roots  I'm  laid. 

"  Ah !  why  do  all  forsake  me  now, 

When  most  I  stand  in  need, 
And  rend  with  keener  pangs  a  heart 

Already  made  to  bleed  ? 

"  Earth's  friendships  ever  thus  are  false 

As  baseless  visions  are ; 
When  naught  is  craved,  they  all  would  give, 

When  much,  they've  naught  to  spare  ! 

"  But  cease  ;  I  will  no  more  complain, 
Though  friendless  now  and  riven  ; 

For  those  who  suffer  most  on  earth, 
Enjoy  the  most  of  heaven ! " 


HIT  THE  NAIL  ON  THE  HEAD. 

THIS  world  is  no  hive  where  the  drone  may 

repose, 
While  others  are  gleaning  its  honey  with 

care ; 
Nor  will  he  succeed  who  is  dealing  his 

blows 
At  random,  and  recklessly  hits  every 

where. 
But  choose  well  your  purpose,  then  breast 

to  the  strife, 
And  hold  to  it  firmly,  by  rectitude  led ; 


Give  your  heart  to  that  duty,  and  strike 

for  your  life, 

And  with  every  stroke,  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head. 

If  fate  is  against  you  ne'er  falter  nor  fret, 
'Twill  not  mend  your  fortunes  nor  light 
en  your  load  ; 

Be  earnest,  still  earnest,  and  you  will  for 
get 
You  e'er  had  a  burden  to  bear  on  the 

road. 
And  when  at  the  close,  what  a  pleasure  to 

know, 
That  you,  never  flinching,  however  life 

sped, 

Gave  you  heart  to  your  duty,  your  strength 
to  each  blow, 

And  with  every  stroke,  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head. 


MY  MOTHER'S  EASY  CHAIR. 

THE  days  of  my  youth  have  all  silently 

sped, 
And  my  locks  are  now  grown  thin  and 

gray; 
My  hopes,  like  a  dream  in  the  morning, 

have  fled, 

And  nothing  remains  but  decay ; 
Yet,  I  seem  but  a  child,  as  I  was  long 

ago, 

When  I  stood  by  the  form  of  my  sire, 
And  my  dear  mother  sung,  as  she  rocked 

to  and  fro 
In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire. 

Oh,  she  was  my  guardian  and  guide  all  the 

day, 
And  the  angel  who  watched  round  my 

bed; 
Her  voice  in  a  murmur  of  prayer  died 

away 
For  blessings  to  rest  on  my  head. 


382 


SIDNEY    DYER. 


[1840-50. 


Then  I  thought  ne'er  an  angel  that  heaven 

could  know, 

Though  trained  in  its  own  peerless  choir, 
Could  sing  like  my  mother,  who  rocked  to 

and  fro 
In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire. 

How  holy  the  place  as  we  gathered   at 

night, 

Round  the  altar  where  peace  ever  dwelt, 
To  join  in  an  anthem  of  praise,  and  unite 

In  thanks  which  our  hearts  truly  felt. 
In  his  sacred  old  seat,  with  his  locks  white 

as  snow, 

Sat  the  venerable  form  of  my  sire, 
While  my  dear  mother  sung,  as  she  rocked 

to  and  fro 
In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire. 

The   cottage   is   gone   which   my  infancy 

knew, 

And  the  place  is  despoiled  of  its  charms, 
My  friends  are  all  gathered  beneath  the 

old  yew, 

And  slumber  in  death's  folded  arms ; 
But  often  with   rapture  my  bosom  doth 

glow, 

As  I  think  of  my  home  and  my  sire, 
And  the  dearest  of  mothers  who  sung  long 

ago, 
In  the  old  easy  chair  by  the  fire ! 


COMING  HOME. 

ADIEU — is  uttered  with  a  sigh, 

Farewell — we  speak  in  pain  ; 
We  ever  part  with  tearful  eyes, 

We  may  not  meet  again ; 
But  oh,  there  is  a  blissful  word, 

When  breathed  by  those  who  roam, 
Which  thrills  with  joy  whenever  heard 

'Tis,  coming,  coming  home  ! 


'TIS  BETTER  LATE  THAN  NEVER. 

LIFE  is  a  race  where  some  succeed, 

While  others  are  beginning ; 
'Tis  luck  at  times,  at  others  speed, 

That  gives  an  early  winning. 
But  if  you  chance  to  fall  behind, 

Ne'er  slacken  your  endeavor ; 
Just  keep  this  wholesome  truth  in  mind, 

'Tis  better  late  than  never. 

If  you  can  keep  ahead,  'tis  well, 

But  never  trip  your  neighbor ; 
'Tis  noble  when  you  can  excel 

By  honest,  patient  labor ; 
But  if  you  are  outstripped  at  last, 

Press  on  as  bold  as  ever ; 
Remember,  though  you  are  surpass'd, 

'Tis  better  late  than  never! 


POWER  OF  SONG. 

HOWEVER  humble  be  the  bard  who  sings, 
If  he  can  touch  one  chord  of  love  that 

slumbers, 

His  name  above  the  proudest  line  of  kings, 
Shall  live  immortal  in  his  truthful  num 
bers. 

The  name  of  him  who  sung  of  "  Home, 

Sweet  Home," 

Is  now  enshrined  with  every  holy  feeling; 
And  though  he  sleeps  beneath  no  sainted 

dome, 

Each  heart  a  pilgrim  at  his  shrine  is 
kneeling. 

The  simple  lays  that  wake  to  tears  when 

sung, 
Like  chords  of  feeling  from  the  music 

taken, 

Are  in  the  bosom  of  the  singer  strung, 
Which  every  throbbing  heart-pulse  will 
awaken. 


HARRIET  E.   G.   AREY. 


HARRIET  ELLEN  GRANNIS  AREY,  a  native  of  Cavendish,  Vermont,  where  she 
was  bora  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  April,  1819,  began  her  literary  career  in  Cleve 
land,  Ohio,  as  a  contributor  to  the  Daily  Herald  of  that  city.  Her  father,  John 
Grannie,  was  a  member  of  the  Provincial  Parliament  of  Canada,  at  the  breaking  out 
of  the  rebellion  in  1837,  and  afterward  held  offices  of  trust  under  the  United  States 
Government. 

Harriet  Ellen  was  one  of  the  earliest  of  that  band  of  young  women,  now  some 
what  numerous  in  this  country,  who  pursued  the  course  of  study  marked  out  for  the 
claimants  of  a  liberal  education  among  the  opposite  sex.  She  was  for  several  years 
previous  to  1848.  a  successful  and  much  beloved  school-teacher  in  Cleveland.  In 
that  year  she  married  Oliver  Arey.  Soon  after  marriage  she  turned  her  attention 
from  teaching  to  editing,  and  has  for  several  years  conducted  periodicals  for  the  fire 
side  at  Buffalo  and  New  York.  "  The  Youth's  Casket,"  of  which  she  was  Editor, 
and  the  "Home  Monthly,"  which  she  now  conducts,  have  endeared  her  to  many 
homes.  In  1855  Mrs.  Arey  published  a  volume  of  Poems* — the  introduction  to 
which  is  in  lines  on  "Myself,"  describing  a  girl  who  had  made  intimate  acquaintance 
with  trees,  rocks  and  streams.  We  quote  from  it : 

I  knew  the  tree  where  slept  the  crows, 

And,  on  the  water's  brim, 
I  climbed  among  the  hemlock  boughs, 

To  watch  the  fishes  swim. 

I  knew  beside  the  swollen  rill, 

What  flowers  to  bloom  would  burst ; 
And  where,  upon  the  south-sloped  hill, 

The  berries  ripened  first. 

Each  violet  tuft,  each  cowslip  green, 

Each  daisy  on  the  lea, 
I  counted  one  by  one — for  they 

Were  kith  and  kin  to  me. 

I  knew  the  moles  that  dared  to  claim 

The  banished  beaver's  huts  ; 
And  sat  on  mossy  logs  to  watch 

The  squirrels  crack  their  nuts. 

And  they  winked  slyly  at  me,  too, 

But  never  fled  away, 
For  in  their  little  hearts  they  knew 

That  I  was  wild  as  they. 

*  Household  Songs  and  other  Poems.    New  York :  Derby  &  Jackson,  1855.    12mo,  pp.  254. 

(383 


384 


HARRIET   E.    G.    AREY. 


[1840-50. 


AUTUMN. 

THERE'S  a  deep  wailing  in  the  voice  of 

waves, 
That  late  were  ringing  with  a  childish 

glee; 
And   the   white   billow,  to   the   beach  it 

laves, 

Advances  with  a  solemn  majesty, 
To  bathe  the  scattered  gems  of  summer's 

crown, 
Or  bear  them  to  the  caves  of  silence  down. 

And  the  wild  winds  are  wandering  with  a 

thrill 
Of  deeper   music,   'mid    the   thin   pale 

leaves, 
That   to   the   bough   are   fondly  clinging 

still; 
And  yet  doth  every  whispered  breath, 

that  grieves 

Their  faded  beauty,  hasten  their  decay, 
And    bear    them   to   their    burial    place 

away. 

The    spreading    maple   doffs   his   turban 

red, 
Like  an  old  garment — and  the  beech 

leaf  pale, 

As  falls  the  silver  from  a  veteran  head, 
Floats  downward  softly  on  the  murmur 
ing  gale, 

And  the  sad  locust,  bending  to  the  breeze, 
Green  at  his  feet,  his  rent  tiara  sees. 

The  red  sun  peers  adown  the  hazy  sky, 
And   steals,  unchallenged,  through   the 
forest  bare, 

Seeking  the  nooks  where  perished  blos 
soms  lie, 

AVi.-tful   to   know  if  life   be   lingering 
there, 

And  through  his  beams  a  genial  warmth 
is  shed 

As  if  he    strove  to  woo  them  from   the 

dead. 


A    carpet    deep   of    withered    leaves    is 

spread, 
Varied,    and    rich,    the    forest    walks 

around ; 
And,  as  our  careless  footsteps  o'er  them 

tread, 
We   listen   lingering   to   their   rustling 

sound, 

Just  as  we  did  in  childhood,  ere  we  knew 
How   many  human   hearts  lay  withering 

too. 

Still   watchful   wake   the   myrtle's  starry 

eyes, 
Still  robed  in  green  the  trailing  willow 

waves, 
But   the  pale  wreck  of  many  a  garland 

lies, 
All    closely   cradled   in   the    place   of 

graves, 
Nestling,  in  death,  amid  the  slumberers 

there, 
Yet  pouring  fragrance  on  the  summer  air. 

Thus  doth  the  memory  of  the  cherished 

dead, 
Upon  our  thoughts  in  grateful  incense 

rise, 
And,  though  their  spirits  from  the  earth 

have  fled, 
The  love  which  bore  them  upward  to 

the  skies 

Is  with  us  still,  all  powerful  to  impart 
A  fragrance  to  the  Autumn  of  the  heart. 

But  in  our  breast, — like  those  pale  leaves 

that  sleep 
Clustered    within   the   hollows   of    the 

tomb — 

Upon  the  graves  of  buried  hopes  lie  deep 
The   withered   flowers   of   life's   sweet 

summer  bloom ; 
And  memory  hears  their  rustling,  as  she 

strays 
'Mid   those   dried    garlands   of    departed 

days. 


1840-oU.] 


HARRIET    E.    G.    AREY. 


385 


Oh !  they  are  pensive  thoughts  that  round  ! 

us  throng,  THANKSGIVING. 

When    the    first    wreaths   of    ioy   are  \n^  „  f    ^ 

J  J  LOME  lorth,  come  forth,  to  the  festal  board, 


brown  and  sere, 
And,  listening  for  the  accustomed  voice  of 

song, 
Life's    withered   foliage   rustles  on  the 

ear; — 
The  voice  of  birds, — the  hum  of  streams, — 

the  round 
Of  gay  winged  insects,  changed  for  this 

one  sound. 

But  garnered  in  the  spirit's  treasure-cell, 
Lies  a  rich  harvest  gleaned  from  sum 
mer  toil ; 

And  he  who  life's  young  plants  hath  nur 
tured  well, 

From  many  a  weary  field  bears  back  a 
spoil, 

Whose  golden  stores  breathe  forth  the  les 
son  deep, 

That  as  the  laborer  sows  his  hand  shall 
reap. 

And  though  earth's  faded  flowers  above 

the  tomb 
Of  long   departed   hopes   may   thickly 

press, 
And  summer  birds  no  more  their  songs 

resume, 
Still    doth    the    heart   a   richer    store 

possess, 
If,  far  beneath,  by  those  pale  leaves  o'er- 

blown, 
The  seed  of  Everlasting  Life  be  sown. 

Its  crown  of  green  yon  forest  shall  resume, 
And  other  flowers  full  soon  to  earth  be 

given  ; 
But   ere   the   soul   renew   its   spring-tide 

bloom, 
Its  budding  leaves  must  feel  the  air  of 

Heaven, 
And  from  the  grave  of  early  hope  shall 

rise, 
A  fadeless  plant  to  blossom  in  the  skies. 


As  our  sires  were  wont  in  the  days  of 

old; 
The  reapers  are  home  with  their  harvest 

hoard, 
The  herds  have  hied  to  their  wint'ry 

fold, 
And  the  cullers  of  fruit  our  vaults  have 

stored 
With  the  wealth  of  the  orchard's  freight 

of  gold. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  your  heart 
felt  praise, 

To  swell  the  songs  at  the  altar's  side ; 
For  a  lofty  pasan  to  God  we  raise, 

Who  hath  scattered  His  love  gifts  free 

and  wide, 
And  still,  from  the  wan  earth's  earliest 

days, 

His    seed-time   and   harvest    hath   not 
denied. 


Come  forth — to  the  haunts  of  your  child 
hood,  come; 
To  the  roof  in  whose  shadow  your  life 

was  nurs'd; 
By  the  hearth  of  the  household  there  yet 

is  room, 
Where  your  breath  of  thanksgiving  was 

faltered  first, 

The  faggot  is  blazing  your  welcome  home, 
And  from  joyful  lips  shall  your  greeting 
burst. 


There's   a   ruddy  tinge   on   the   wrinkled 

cheek, 
For  the  pulse  of  age  hath  a  quicker 

flow; 
And  a  gleam,  like  the  light  of  youth  doth 

break 

'Mid  the  care-worn    shades  on  the  old 
man's  brow, 


25 


380 


HARRIET    E.    G.    AREY. 


[1840-50. 


For  the  visions  of  eld  in  his  soul  awake : 
The  scenes  of  his  childhood  are  round 
him  now. 

Oh,  this  is  a  day  when  the  thought  goes 

back 
O'er   the   flowery   paths   of  our   early 

years ; 
Where  the  garlands  of  joy  have  strewn 

the  track 
And  hidden  the  graves  of  our  hopes 

and  fears, 
And  the  names  of  the  friends  whose  tones 

we  lack, 
Steal  over  the  heart  like  a  gush  of  tears. 

Tis  the  hour  when  kindred  circles  meet — 
That  still  must  the  wanderer  homeward 

bring — 

When  the  echo  of  childhood's  tireless  feet, 
Through    the    halls   of    their    father's 

homestead  ring — 
When  gladness  breathes  in  the  tones  we 

greet, 

And  a  murmur  of  love  to  the  lips  doth 
spring. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  to  the  humble  cot, 
Where  the  children  of  want  and  sorrow 

rove — 

Where  the  hand  of  the  reaper  garners  not 
The   stores   that   a   Father's   goodness 

prove ; 
And  the  poor  man  weeps  for  the  toilsome 

lot, 
Entailed  on  the  heirs  of  his  earnest  love. 

Come  forth  to  the  fields,  with  the  heart 

which  leaves 

A  blessing,  wherever  its  trace  appears ; 

To  lighten  the  song  which  sorrow  weaves, 

Where  poverty's  portion  is  steeped  in 

tears; 
And    freely    fling,    from    your    bursting 

sheaves, 

Like  the  reapers  of  Boaz,  the  gleaning 
ears. 


We  hallow  the  day  as  our  fathers  did, 
With  a  mingling  of  gladness,  and  praise, 

and  prayer, 

With  a  willing  boon  for  the  lowliest  shed, 
That  the  hungry  and  poor  in  our  thanks 

may  share, 
That  the  scantiest  table  be  freely  spread, 
And  the  lip  of  the  mourner  a  blessing 
bear. 

For  the  sons  of  the  feeble  pilgrim  band, 

Who  first  on  a  distant  rock-bound  bay, 
Gave  thanks  for  the  gifts  of  the  teeming 

land, 
Have  spread  over  mountain  and  stream 

away ; 

And  a  song  of  praise  shall  to  God  ascend 
From  a  myriad  of  burning  lips  to-day. 

Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  the  chiming 

bell, 

A  joyous  throng  to  the  altar's  side ; 
Come  mingle  your  tones  with  the  organ's 

swell ; 
And,  where  the  door  of  the  feast  stands 

wide, 
Let  the  gray-haired  sire  to  his  grandchild 

tell 
A  tale  of  our  Nation's  grateful  pride. 


THE  FIREMAN. 

AMID  the  flames  he  stood. 

And    the    white     smoke    formed     his 

wreath — 
And  the  swelling  waves,  of  the  fiery  flood, 

Came  surging  from  beneath. 

The  crackling  timbers  reeled — 

And  the  brands  came  gleaming  down, 

Like  the  scattered  wealth  that  the  forests 

yield, 
When  their  autumn  leaves  are  brown. 


1840-50.] 


HARRIET    E.    G.    AREY. 


387 


The  tempest  howled  in  wrath, 
And  the  fire  wheeled  madly  on, 

And  the  embers,  far,  on  the  wind's  wild 

path, 
Through  the  murky  night,  had  gone. 

Yet  there,  in  his  pride,  he  stood, 
With  a  steady  hand,  and  strong; 

And  his  ax  came    down  on  the  burning 

wood, 
Till  the  heart  of  the  old  oak  rung. 

There  was  many  an  earnest  eye, 

Through  the  rolling  smoke,  that  gazed, 

While  he  stood,  with  his  dauntless   soul, 

and  high, 
Where  the  hottest  fire-brands  blazed. 

And  prayers  were  faltered  forth, 
From  the  aged,  and  the  young ; 

For    the    safety   of    many   a    household 

hearth, 
On  the  strokes  of  his  strong  arm  hung. 

There  was  many  a  proud  knight  there, 
With  his  mantle  round  him  rolled, 

That  aloof,  in  the  light  of  that  sweeping 

fire, 
Stood  shivering  in  the  cold. 

And  oft  from  the  firemen's  bands, 
A  summons  for  aid  was  heard ; 

But  never   the  tips  of  their  well-gloved 

hands, 
From  their  ermined  cloaks  were  stirred. 

And  no  white  and  fervent  lip, 

For  their  welfare,  or  safety  prayed ; 

For  no  children's  weal  and  no  mother's 

hope, 
In  the  strength  of  their  arms  was  stayed. 

Were  I  searching  earth's  mingled  throng 
For  shelter,  my  claim  would  be 

A  hand,  like  that  Fireman's,  nerved  and 

strong, 
And  a  fearless  heart  for  me. 


FAME. 

FAME  !  not  for  me,  if  my  heart's  life  must 

pay  for  it! 
What!  shall  I  seek  it  through  falsehood 

and  wrong? 
Trample  down  honor  and  truth,  to  make 

way  for  it? 
Truckle,  and  smile  for  the  praise  of  the 

throng? 
Not  while  this  earth  rolls !  the  hand  that 

shall  offer  me 
Guerdon  so  worthless  hath  never  been 

born, 
I — if  this  gaud  is  the  prize  that  ye  proffer 

me — 
Fling  back  the  gift  with  ineffable  scorn. 

Lo,  I  see  throngs  quaff  the  goblet  Fame 

crushed  for  them — 
Clusters  of  Peace  poured  their  life  in 

that  wine; — 
Grapes  of  pure  Truth,  in  God's  sunshine 

that  blushed  for  them, 
Yielded  their  forms  for  its  sparkle,  and 

shine ; 
Bring  it  not — name  it  not : — sweet  things 

are  blessing  me 
Down  in  the  pathway  obscure  where  I 

tread ; 

In,  by  the  fireside,  soft  hands  are  caress 
ing  me ; — 

Out,  in  the  sunlight,  God's  smile  is  o'er- 
head. 

Cull  these  sweet  home-flowers  to  twine  a 

proud  wreath  for  me  ? 
Yield,  for  that  thorn-crown,  these  gar 
lands  of  love  ? 

Not  while  fond  hearts  and  pale  violets  can 

breathe  for  me 

Bliss  that  the    angels  might  stoop  for 
above. 

Back  with  thy  tempting,  pure  hands  shall 
win  bread  for  me  ; — 


388 


HARRIET   E.    G.    AREY. 


[18*0-50. 


God,  for  the  powers  He  has  given,  be 

my  guide : 
And  if  "  Well  done,  thou  faithful "  at  last 

may  be  said  for  me, 
What  is  the  crown  that  this  world  gives 

beside  ? 


SLEIGH-RIDING. 

MERRILY  ho !  our  light  sleighs  go, 
Gliding  like  spirits  along  the  snow ; 
Bracing  and  pure  is  the  clear,  cold  air — 
Cozy  and  warm  are  the  robes  we  wear ; 
Merrily  out  the  sleigh  bells  chime ; 
Our  pulses  bound,  and  our  hearts  keep 

time; 

The  skies  are  fair,  and  the  stars  are  bright, 
Ho !  for  the  joys  of  the  winter's  night. 

Darkly  and  grim  the  forests  frown, 

With    their  snowy  boughs,  and  shadows 

brown ; 

The  rabbit  steals  from  his  sheltered  den, 
But  speeds,  as  we  come,  to  his  haunts  again, 
And  creeping  back,  as  our  sleigh-bells  trill, 
The  sly  fox  lurks  in  the  darkness  still : 
The  shadows  are  past,  and  away  we  go, 
Over  the  drifts  of  the  crackling  snow. 

Lonely  the  lights  shine  here,  and  there, 
From  scattered  cots  on  the  woodland  bare ; 
A  village  is  here  whose  windows  bright, 
Twinkle  like  hope,  on  the  dusky  night, 
And  echoes  of  gay,  young  voices  sound, 
From  groups  that  gather  the  hearthstones 

round : 

A  blessing  we  breathe,  and  on  we  speed, 
Far  in  the  track  of  the  tireless  steed. 

Merrily  ho !  our  light  sleighs  go, 

Gliding  like  spirits  along  the  snow ; 

But   yonder   the   moon's   broad   disc  has 

come, 
Over  the  forests  to  warn  us  home ; 


For  cheerily  still  as  our  bells  may  ring, 
Old  Time  ne'er  stays  on  his  restless  wing; 
And  home  we  haste  with  our  spirits  light, 
Though  all  too  short  is  the  winter's  night. 


HOME  SONG. 

Now,  thrust  my  thimble  in  its  case, 

And  store  the  spools  away, 
And  lay  the  muslin  rolls  in  place ; 

My  task  is  done  to-day; 
For,  like  the  workmen's  evening  bell, 

A  sound  hath  met  my  ears, 
The  gate-click  by  the  street  doth  tell 

Papa  has  come,  my  dears. 
Bear  off  the  toy-box  from  the  floor — 

For  yonder  chair  make  room; 
And  up,  and  out — unbar  the  door, 

And  breathe  his  welcome  home; 
For  'tis  the  twilight  hour  of  joy, 

When  Home's  best  pleasures  rally; 
And  I  will  clasp  my  darling  boy, 

While  papa  romps  with  Allie. 

There,  take  the  hat,  and  gloves,  and  bring 

The  slippers,  warm  and  soft, 
While  bounds  the  babe,  with  laugh  and 
spring, 

In  those  loved  arms  aloft, 
And  let  each  nook  some  comfort  yield — 

Each  heart  with  love  be  warm, 
For  him,  whose  firm,  strong  hands  shall 
shield 

The  household  gods  from  harm. 
Our  love  shall  light  the  gathering  gloom; 

For,  o'er  all  earthly  hope, 
We  cherish  first  the  joys  of  home ; 

A  glad,  rejoicing  group. 
And  through  the  twilight  hour  of  joy, 

We  turn  from  toil,  to  dally 
With  thy  young  dreams  of  life,  my  boy, 

And  gaily  fondle  Allie. 


SUSAN   W.  JEWETT. 


SUSAN  W.  JEWETT,  wife  of  Charles  A.  Jewett,  who  is  widely  known  in  the  West 
as  an  engaver,  is,  we  believe,  a  native  of  Massachusetts.  Between  the  years  1840 
and  1857,  she  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  periodicals  and  journals  of  Cincinnati. 
In  1847  she  conducted  a  monthly  magazine  for  children,  called  the  Youth's  Visitor, 
which  was  a  favorite  wherever  it  became  known.  In  1856,  Truman  and  Spofford, 
Cincinnati,  published  for  Mrs.  Jewett  "  The  Old  Corner  Cupboard,"  a  duodecimo  vol 
ume  of  three  hundred  and  four  pages,  composed  of  prose  sketches  and  poems,  illus 
trating  "  the  every-day  life  of  every-day  people." 


THE  PAST. 

WEEP  not  for  what  is  past, 
With  vain  and  fruitless  tears, 

But  husband  well  thy  strength, 
To  serve  the  coming  years. 

In  noble  deeds,  not  idle  grief, 

Let  the  true  soul  find  sweet  relief. 

Mourn  not  for  what  is  past, 

Though  every  passing  day 
Some  pathway  may  disclose, 

Where  thou  hast  gone  astray. 
Tears  will  but  cloud  thy  feeble  sight — 
Not  guide  thee  to  the  way  of  right. 

Weep  not  for  what  is  past ; 

Not  tears  of  blood  will  bring 
One  wasted  moment  back, 

Or  stay  Time's  rapid  wing. 
Pour  not  thy  soul's  best  life  away — 
Begin  anew  to  live — to-day. 


Oh  !  weep  not  for  the  past, 
Though  in  its  dark  domain, 

The  forms  thou  lov'st  are  bound 
By  adamantine  chain. 

The  deathless  spirit  should  not  be 

So  fettered  to  mortality. 


What  doth  the  grave  enfold, 

That  there  thy  thoughts  should  turn  ? 
Colder  the  clay  beneath 

Than  monumental  urn. 
The  lost  to  thee — to  life  are  born — 
Rejoice,  then,  in  their  natal  morn  ! 

The  past !  that  narrow  span 

Is  nothing  now  to  thee, 
Poor  prisoner  of  time, 

Yet  in  thine  infancy  ! 
The  soul  should  earthly  thrall  despise — 
The  future  hath  no  boundaries. 


MY  MOTHER. 

Mr  mother !  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Since  half  in  wonder,  half  in  dread, 

I  looked  upon  thy  clay-cold  face, 

And  heard  the  whisper — "She  is  dead!" 


The  memory  of  thine  earthly  form 
Is  dim  as  a  remembered  dream, 
But  year  by  year,  more  close  to  mine 

Doth  thy  celestial  spirit  seem. 
(389) 


S  U  S  A  N 


J  E  W  E  T  T  . 


[1840-50. 


Wln-11  by  the  mouldering  stone  I  stood, 
Which  marks  the  spot  where  thouart  laid, 

And  with  the  daisies  on  the  sod, 
My  little  child  in  gladness  played, 

Oh  !  how  my  spirit  longed  to  know 
If  from  the  heights  of  heavenly  joy, 

The  love,  that  watched  my  infant  years, 
Looked  down  to  bless  my  bright-eyed 
boy! 

And  when  by  anguish  crushed  and  worn, 
I  watched  my  bud  of  beauty  fade, 

And  in  the  cold  and  ghastly  tomb 
Beheld  his  lifeless  body  laid  ; 

And  stranger  eyes  beheld  my  grief, 
Who  in  my  joys  had  borne  no  part, 

Oh,  how  I  thirsted  then  for  thee, 
To  lift  the  load  from  off  my  heart ! 

I  know  my  faith  is  not  a  dream ; 

My  life  from  thine  no  power  can  wrest ; 
Death's  icy  hand  can  never  chill 

The  love  that  warms  a  mother's  breast. 

And  surely  God  through  thee  hath  taught 
My  soul  submission  to  his  will, 

With  patient  trust  and  child-like  love, 
That  I  can  suffer  and  be  still. 


LEAVE  ME. 

LEAVE  me.  for  I  would  be  alone ; 

Yet,  least  alone,  when  all  are  fled, 
For  nearest  then  the  loved  ones  come, 

Whom  we  are  wont  to  call  the  dead! 
But  closer  do  our  thoughts  entwine, 
When  their  freed  spirits  meet  with  mine. 

Nor  prize  I  living  friends  the  less, 
WTho  give  to  life  its  holiest  light ; 

Their  cheerful  tones,  their  cheering  smiles, 
Their  eyes  with  fond  affection  bright, 


Though  eyes  so  bright,  and  forms  so  dear, 
Have  vanished  from  my  pathway  here. 

When  aches  the  void  within  my  soul, 
And  mid  the  gay  and  noisy  crowd, 

My  heart  grows  sick  with  bitter  thoughts 
Of  ghastly  death  and  chilly  shroud, 

And  those  I  love,  seem  lost  for  aye — 

Leave  me  alone  with  God,  to  pray. 

It  smooths  the  troubled  waves  of  grief, 
In  quiet  thought  to  sit  awhile ; 

When  one  by  one  the  lost  return, 

And    warm   me   with    their    heavenly 
smile. 

It  is  no  dream — how  well  I  feel 

Their  sacred  influence  round  me  steal. 

The  autumn  winds  are  sighing  now ; 

The  yellow  leaves  are  thickly  strown — 
Decay  and  death  in  all  I  see, 

Recall  the  hopes  forever  flown. 
The  autumn  wind — the  leafless  bough 
Hath  mournful  meaning  to  me  now. 

But  leave  me,  gentle  friends,  awhile, 
That  I  may  ease  my  grief  by  tears ; 

For  still  before  me  shines  a  light 

To  guide  and  bless  my  coming  years ; 

A  calmer,  steadier,  holier  ray, 

Then  dawned  upon  my  life's  young  day. 

And  by  its  light,  so  pure  and  clear, 
My  spirit  feebly  strives  to  see 

Beyond  the  mists  of  selfish  tears — 
Beyond  death's  gloomy  mystery ; 

And  as  alone,  I  strive  and  pray, 

I  see  the  earth-clouds  pass  away. 

Then  drinks  my  soul,  so  parched  and  dry, 
Of  living  streams  that  cannot  fail, 

And  faith  awakes  to  newer  life, 
And  looks  beyond  the  fleshly  vail ; 

And  even  the  murkiest  clouds  of  care 

The  hues  of  heavenly  patience  wear. 


LUELLA   J.  B.  CASE. 


LUELLA  J.  BARTLETT  CASE  is  a  native  of  Kingston,  New  Hampshire.  Her 
grandfather,  Josiah  Bartlett,  was  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Indepen 
dence.  In  the  year  1828  Miss  Bartlett  was  married,  at  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  to 
Eliphalet  Case.  About  the  year  1845  Mr.  Case  emigrated  to  the  West,  and,  soon 
after,  became  one  of  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer.  Mrs. 
Case  contributed  to  the  columns  of  the  Enquirer  several  poems  on  Western  themes. 
About  the  year  1850  Mr.  Case  removed  his  family  from  Cincinnati  to  Patriot,  In 
diana,  near  which  town  he  cultivates  the  vine.  Mrs.  Case  died  in  September,  1857. 


THE  INDIAN  RELIC. 

YEARS  ago  was  made  thy  grave, 
By  the  Ohio's  languid  wave, 
When  primeval  forests  dim 
Echoed  to  the  wild  bird's  hymn  ; 
From  that  lone  and  quiet  bed, 
Relic  of  the  unknown  dead, 
Why  art  thou,  a  mouldering  thing, 
Here  amongst  the  bloom  of  spring  ? 

Violets  gem  the  fresh,  young  grass ; 
Softest  breezes  o'er  thee  pass  ; 
Nature's  voice,  in  tree  and  flower, 
Whispers  of  a  waking  hour ; 
Village  sounds  below  are  ringing ; 
Birds  around  thee  joyous  singing — 
Thou,  upon  this  height  alone 
No  reviving  power  hast  known ! 

Yet  wert  thou  of  human  form, 
Once  with  all  life's  instincts  warm,— 
Quailing  at  the  storm  of  grief, 
Like  the  frailest  forest  leaf, — 
With  a  bounding  pulse — an  eye 
Bright'ning  o'er  its  loved  ones  nigh, 
Till  beneath  this  cairn  of  trust 
Dust  was  laid  to  blend  with  dust. 


When  the  red  man  ruled  the  wood, 
And  his  frail  canoe  yon  flood, 
Hast  thou  held  the  unerring  bow 
That  the  antlered  head  laid  low  ? 
And  in  battle's  fearful  strife 
Swung  the  keen,  remorseless  knife  ? 
Or,  with  woman's  loving  arm, 
Shielded  helplessness  from  harm  ? 

Silent !  silent !     Naught  below 
O'er  thy  past  a  gleam  can  throw. 
Or,  in  frame  of  sinewy  chief, 
Woman,  born  for  love  and  grief — 
Thankless  toil,  or  haughty  sway 
Sped  life's  brief  and  fitful  day. 
Like  the  autumn's  sapless  bough 
Crumbling  o'er  thee,  thou  art  now. 

Rest !     A  young,  organic  world, 
Into  sudden  ruin  hurled, 
Casts  its  fragments  o'er  thy  tomb, 
'Midst  the  woodland's  softened  gloom ! 
Died  those  frail  things  long  ago, 
But  the  soul  no  death  can  know — 
Rest !    Thy  grave,  with  silent  preaching, 
Humble  hope  and  faith  is  teaching ! 


Rest !     Thy  warrior  tribes  so  bold 
Roam  no  more  their  forests  old, 


(  391  ) 


392 


LUELLA    J.    B.    CASE, 


[1840-50. 


And  the  thundering  fire-canoe 
Sweeps  their  placid  waters  through. 
Science  rules  where  Nature  smiled ; 
Art  is  toiling  in  the  wild ; 
And  their  mouldering  cairns  alone 
Tell  the  tale  of  races  gone. 

Thus  o'er  Time's  mysterious  sea 
Being  moves  perpetually ; 
Crowds  of  swift,  advancing  waves 
Roll  o'er  vanished  nations'  graves ; 
But  immortal  treasures  sweep 
Still  unharmed  that  solemn  deep ; — 
Progress  holds  a  tireless  way — 
Mind  asserts  her  deathless  sway. 


ENERGY  IN  ADVERSITY. 

ONWARD  !  Hath  earth's  ceaseless  change 

Trampled  on  thy  heart  ? 
Faint  not,  for  that  restless  range 

Soon  will  heal  the  smart. 
Trust  the  future  ;  time  will  prove 
Earth  hath  stronger,  truer  love. 

Bless  thy  God — the  heart  is  not 

An  abandoned  urn, 
Where  all  lonely  and  forgot, 

Dust  and  ashes  mourn  ; 
Bless  him  that  his  mercy  brings 
Joy  from  out  its  withered  things. 

Onward,  for  the  truths  of  God — 

Onward,  for  the  right ! 
Firmly  let  the  field  be  trod 

In  life's  coming  fight ; 
Heaven's  own  hand  will  lead  thee  on, 
Guard  thee  till  thy  task  is  done ! 

Then  will  brighter,  sweeter  flowers 

Blossom  round  thy  way, 
Than  e'er  sprung  in  Hope's  glad  bowers, 

In  thine  early  day  ; 
And  the  rolling  years  shall  bring 
Strength  and  healing  on  their  wing. 


DEATH  LEADING  AGE  TO  REPOSE. 

LEAD  him  gently — he  is  weary, 

Spirit  of  the  placid  brow ! 
Life  is  long,  and  age  is  dreary, 

And  he  seeks  to  slumber  now. 

Lead  him  gently — he  is  weeping, 
For  the  friends  he  cannot  see ; 

Gently — for  he  shrinks  from  sleeping 
On  the  couch  he  asks  of  thee ! 

Thou,  with  mien  of  solemn  gladness, 
With  the  thought-illumined  eye, 

Pity  thou  the  mortal's  sadness — 
Teach  him  it  is  well  to  die. 

Time  has  vailed  his  eye  with  blindness, 
On  thy  face  it  may  not  dwell, 

Or  its  sweet,  majestic  kindness 

Would  each  mournful  doubt  dispel. 

Passionless  thine  every  feature, 
Moveless  is  thy  being's  calm, 

While  poor  suffering  human  nature 
Knows  but  few  brief  hours  of  balm. 

Yet  when  life's  long  strife  is  closing, 
And  the  grave  is  drawing  near, 

How  it  shrinks  from  that  reposing 
Where  there  comes  nor  hope,  nor  fear. 

Open  thou  the  visioned  portal, 
That  reveals  the  life  sublime, 

That  within  the  land  immortal 
Waits  the  weary  child  of  Time. 

Open  thou  the  land  of  beauty, 
Where  the  Ideal  is  no  dream, 

And  the  child  of  patient  Duty 
Walks  in  joy's  unclouded  beam. 

Thou,  with  brow  that  owns  no  sorrow, 
With  the  eye  that  may  not  weep, 

Point  him  to  heaven's  coming  morrow — 
Show  him  it  is  well  to  sleep  ! 


FRANCES    DANA  GAGE. 


OF  all  the  lady  writers  represented  in  this  volume,  none  can  show  a  more  thor 
oughly  Western  and  pioneer  origin  and  training,  than  Mrs.  Gage.  Joseph  Barker 
and  Captain  Dana,  were  in  the  first  company  of  settlers  from  New  England,  who 
crossed  the  Alleghanies  in  the  winter  of  1787-8,  under  the  lead  of  Rufus  Putnam, 
and  landed  at  Marietta  on  the  seventh  of  April,  1788,  thus  becoming  the  founders  of 
Ohio.  Joseph  Barker  married  Elizabeth  Dana,  of  which  parentage  Frances  Dana 
Barker  was  born,  in  1808.  The  first  settlers  of  Marietta  were,  in  strength  of  char 
acter  and  for  vigor  of  manly  virtues,  the  most  remarkable  band  of  pioneers  the  West 
has  ever  seen.  Coming  from  the  flower  of  such  a  stock,  and  reared  amid  all  the  stir 
ring  incidents  of  such  a  life  of  toil,  danger  and  heroism,  Miss  Barker  became  early 
and  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  romance  of  the  border.  Earnest,  impulsive,  genial 
and  romantic,  she  grew  up  amid  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  Muskingum,  a  child  of 
nature,  most  loyal  to  the  hills,  woods  and  waters,  in  whose  inspirations  she  found  her 
true  existence.  At  the  age  of  twenty  years,  Miss  Barker  was  married  to  James  L. 
Gage  of  McConnelsville,  where  she  settled  in  a  lovely  home  still  overlooking  the  Mus 
kingum.  at  which  place  she  continued  to  reside  for  twenty-five  years,  rearing  a  family 
of  six  stalwart  sons  and  two  daughters.  In  1853  the  family  removed  to  St.  Louis, 
near  to  which  city  has  since  been  their  home. 

Early  in  the  winter  of  1859,  in  company  with  a  relative,  Mrs.  Gage  visited  the  West 
India  Islands  and  closely  scanned  the  habits  of  the  people,  from  her  own  peculiar  stand 
point,  and  on  her  return  prepared  several  popular  lectures  on  Life  in  the  West  Indies, 
which  were  largely  patronized  in  northern  Ohio,  during  the  spring  of  1860,  placing 
the  lecturer  in  the  first  rank  of  social  female  orators,  and  establishing  her  reputation 
as  a  keen  observer  of  the  anatomy  of  human  society. 

Mrs.  Gage  early  practiced  the  writing  of  verses  as  an  irrepressible  expression  of 
her  peculiar  nature.  These  verses  were  for  some  time  kept  strictly  private,  and  first 
found  their  way  into  the  local  newspapers  through  the  partial  theft  of  her  friends. 
About  the  year  1850,  the  poetical  publications  of  Mrs.  Gage  began  to  attract  consid 
erable  attention :  these  were  mostly  written  for  the  Ohio  Cultivator,  published  at  Co 
lumbus,  for  which  periodical  she  was  thenceforth  a  regular  contributor  for  some  years. 
Between  the  years  1845  and  1855,  Mrs.  Gage's  muse  seems  to  have  culminated, 
as,  from  her  taste  for  travel  and  public  lecturing  in  behalf  of  various  reforms,  she  has 
since  neglected  the  bower  of  the  muses  for  the  platform  of  public  disquisition.  Her 
writing  is  always  the  spontaneous  gushing  of  her  feeling  or  fancy.  The  rhythm  is 
never  studied,  but  measured  only  by  the  ear.  Mrs.  Gage  has  never  concentrated  her 
powers  of  versification  upon  the  construction  of  a  studied  poem,  as  a  representative 
of  her  best  talent,  but  thrown  off  her  minstrelsy  like  the  chimes  of  Easter-bells, 
making  the  world  welcome  to  what  cost  her  nothing  and  must  be  said.  Mrs.  Gage  is 

(393) 


394 


FRANCES    D.    GAGE. 


[1840-50. 


strongly  humanitarian  and  reformatory,  and  very  many  of  her  most  spirited  writings 
are  in  behalf  of  these  objects.  Her  perfect  intimacy  with  nature  and  her  searching 
observation  of  common  things,  enables  her  to  depict  beauties  and  excellences  from 
the  most  homely  topics,  which  startle  by  their  fidelity  and  charm  by  their  simplicity, 
revealing  their  author  to  be,  emphatically,  a  Woman  of  the  People ;  for  which  reason 
her  poems  should  be  judged  by  the  thermometer  of  popular  appreciation,  rather  than 
by  the  severer  tests  of  abstract  criticism, — a  tribunal  to  which,  from  the  scantiness  of 
her  early  education  and  the  independence  of  cultivated  habits,  she  is  not  fairly  ame 
nable. 


THE  SOUNDS  OF  INDUSTRY. 

I  LOVE  the  banging  hammer, 

The  whirring  of  the  plane, 
The  crashing  of  the  busy  saw, 

The  creaking  of  the  crane, 
The  ringing  of  the  anvil, 

The  grating  of  the  drill, 
The  clattering  of  the  turning-lathe, 

The  whirling  of  the  mill, 
The  buzzing  of  the  spindle, 

The  rattling  of  the  loom, 
The  puffing  of  the  engine, 

And  the  fan's  continuous  boom — 
The  clipping  of  the  tailor's  shears, 

The  driving  of  the  awl, — 
The  sounds  of  busy  labor, 

I  love,  I  love  them  all. 

I  love  the  plowman's  whistle, 

The  reaper's  cheerful  song, 
The  drover's  oft-repeated  shout, 

As  he  spurs  his  stock  along ; 
The  bustle  of  the  market-man, 

As  he  hies  him  to  the  town ; 
The  halloo  from  the  tree-top 

As  the  ripened  fruit  comes  down ; 
The  busy  sound  of  threshers 

As  they  clean  the  ripened  grain, 
And  the  buskers'  joke  and  mirth  and  glee 

'Xcath  the  moonlight  on  the  plain, 
The  kind  voice  of  the  dairyman, 

The  shepherd's  gentle  call — 


These  sounds  of  active  industry, 
I  love,  I  love  them  all ; 

For  they  tell  my  longing  spirit 

Of  the  earnestness  of  life, 
How  much  of  all  its  happiness 

Comes  out  of  toil  and  strife — 
Not  that  toil  and  strife  that  fainteth, 

And  murmureth  all  the  way, — 
Not  the  toil  and  strife  that  groaneth 

Beneath  a  tyrant's  sway  : 
But  the  toil  and  strife  that  springeth 

From  a  free  and  willing  heart, 
A  strife  which  ever  bringeth 

To  the  striver  all  his  part. 

Oh !  there  is  a  good  in  labor, 

If  we  labor  but  aright, 
That  gives  vigor  to  the  day-time, 

And  a  sweeter  sleep  at  night ; 
A  good  that  bringeth  pleasure, 

Even  to  the  toiling  hours — 
For  duty  cheers  the  spirit 

As  the  dew  revives  the  flowers. 

Oh  !  say  not  that  Jehovah 

Bade  us  labor  as  a  doom, 
No,  it  is  his  richest  mercy, 

And  will  scatter  half  life's  gloom. 
Then  let  us  still  be  doing 

Whate'er  we  find  to  do — 
With  an  earnest,  willing  spirit, 

And  a  strong  hand  free  and  true. 


1840-50.] 


FRANCES   D.    GAGE. 


395 


A  HOME  PICTURE. 

BEN  FISHER  had  finished  his  hard  day's 
work, 

And  he  sat  at  his  cottage  door ; 
His  good  wife,  Kate,  sat  by  his  side, 

And  the  moonlight  danced  on  the  floor; — 
The  moonlight  danced  on  the  cottage  floor, 

Her  beams  were  as  clear  and  bright 
As  when  he  and  Kate,  twelve  years  before. 

Talked  love  in  the  mellow  light. 

Ben  Fisher  had  never  a  pipe  of  clay, 

And  never  a  dram  drank  he ; 
So  he  loved  at  home  with  his  wife  to  stay, 

And  they  chatted  right  merrily  : 
Right  merrily  chatted  they  on,  the  while 

Her  babe  slept  on  her  breast ; 
While  a  chubby  rogue,  with  rosy  smile, 

On  his  father's  knee  found  rest. 

Ben  told  her  how  fast  his  potatoes  grew, 

And  the  corn  in  the  lower  field ; 
And  the  wheat  on  the  hill  was  grown  to 
seed, 

And  promised  a  glorious  yield : — 
A  glorious  yield  in  the  harvest  time, 

And  his  orchard  was  doing  fair ; 
His  sheep  and  his  stock  were  in  the  prime, 

His  farm  all  in  good  repair. 

Kate  said  that  her  garden  looked  beautiful, 

Her  fowls  and  her  calves  were  fat ; 
That  the  butter  that  Tommy  that  morning 
churned, 

Would  buy  him  a  Sunday  hat; 
That  Jenny  for  pa'  a  new  shirt  had  made, 

And  'twas  done  too  by  the  rule ; 
That  Neddy  the  garden  could  nicely  spade, 

And  Ann  was  ahead  at  school. 

Ben  slowly  passed  his  toil-worn  hand 
Through  his  locks  of  grayish  brown — 

"I  tell  you,  Kate,  what  I  think,"  said  he, 
"We're  the  happiest  folks  in  town." 


"  I  know,"  said  Kate,  "  that  we  all  work 
hard, — 

Work  and  health  go  together,  I've  found ; 
For  there's  Mrs.  Bell  does  not  work  at  all, 

And  she's  sick  the  whole  year  round. 

"  They're  worth  their  thousands,  so  people 
say, 

But  I  ne'er  saw  them  happy  yet ; 
'Twould  not  be  me  that  would  take  their 
gold, 

And  live  in  a  constant  fret. 
My  humble  home  has  a  light  within, 

Mrs.  Bell's  gold  could  not  buy, 
Six  healthy  children,  a  merry  heart, 

And  a  husband's  love-lit  eye." 

I  fancied  a  tear  was  in  Ben's  eye, — 

The  moon  shone  brighter  and  clearer, 
I  could  not  tell  why  the  man  should  cry, 

But  he  hitched  up  to  Kate  still  nearer ; 
He  leaned  his  head  on  her  shoulder  there, 

And  took  her  hand  in  his, — 
I  guess  (though  I  looked  at  the  moon  just 
then), 

That  he  left  on  her  lips  a  kiss. 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  SOLILOQUY. 

I  WISH  I  had  a  dozen  pairs 
Of  hands,  this  very  minute  ; 

I'd  soon  put  all  these  things  to  rights — 
The  very  deuce  is  in  it. 

Here's  a  big  washing  to  be  done, 

One  pair  of  hands  to  do  it, 
Sheets,  shirts   and  stockings,  coats  and 
pants, 

How  will  I  e'er  get  through  it  ? 

Dinner  to  get  for  six  or  more, 
No  loaf  left  o'er  from  Sunday ; 

And  baby  cross  as  he  can  live, — 
He's  always  so  on  Monday. 


396 


FRANCES    D.    GAGE. 


[1840-50. 


And  there's  the  cream,  'tis  getting  sour, 
And  must  forthwith  be  churning, 

And  here's  Bob,  wants  a  button  on — 
Which  way  shall  I  be  turning  ? 

Tis  time  the  meat  was  in  the  pot, 
The  bread  was  worked  for  baking, 

The  clothes  were  taken  from  the  boil — 
Oh  dear !  the  baby's  waking ! 

Hush,  baby  dear !  there,  hush-sh-sh ! 

I  wish  he'd  sleep  a  little, 
Till  I  could  run  and  get  some  wood, 

To  hurry  up  that  kettle. 

Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  if  P —  comes  home, 
And  finds  things  in  this  pother, 

He'll  just  begin  and  tell  me  all 
About  his  tidy  mother  ! 

How  nice  her  kitchen  used  to  be, 

Her  dinner  always  ready 
Exactly  when  the  noon  bell  rang — 

Hush,  hush,  dear  little  Freddy. 

And  then  will  come  some  hasty  word, 
Right  out  before  I'm  thinking, — 

They  say  that  hasty  words  from  wives 
Set  sober  men  to  drinking. 

Now  isn't  that  a  great  idea, 

That  men  should  take  to  sinning, 

Because  a  weary,  half-sick  wife, 
Can't  always  smile  so  winning  ? 

When  I  was  young  I  used  to  earn 

My  living  without  trouble, 
Had  clothes  and  pocket-money,  too, 

And  hours  of  leisure  double. 

I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  fate, 

When  I,  a-lass !  was  courted — 
Wife,    mother,    nurse,    seamstress,    cook, 

housekeeper,    chamber-maid,  laundress, 

dairy-woman,  and  scrub  generally,  doing 

the  work  of  six, 

For  the  sake  of  being  supported ! 


LIFE'S  LESSONS. 

CHASING  after   butterflies,  hunting   after 

flowers, 
Listening   to  the  wild  birds,  through  the 

sunny  hours — 
Looking  up  the  hen's  nests  on  the  fragrant 

mows, 
Tending  to  the  lambkins,  driving  up  the 

cows, 

Mixing  play  and  labor  in  my  childish  glee, 
Learned  I  life's  first  lessons — learned  I  to 

be  free. 

Waving  on  the  tree-tops,  roaming  o'er  the 

hills ; 
Wandering  through  the  meadows,  fishing 

in  the  rills ; 
Floating  on   the  rivers,    riding    o'er   the 

plains, 
Plodding  through  the  corn  fields,  dropping 

golden  grains, 

Mixing  play  and  labor,  with  a  childish  glee, 
Learned  I  life's  first  lessons — learned  I  to 

be  free. 

Laughing  'mong  the  green  leaves  as  the 

ripe  fruit  fell ; 
Gathering  the  brown  nuts  in  the  woody 

dell; 
Tripping  at  the   spinning-wheel,   ever  to 

and  fro ; 

Dancing  at  the  paring  -bee,  on  a  merry  toe ; 
Mixing  play  and  labor,  with  a  youthful  glee, 
Learned  I  life's  best  lessons — learned  I  to 

be  free. 

Singing  o'er  my  milk-pail  while  the  dews 
were  bright, 

Toiling  in  the  dairy  with  a  spirit  light, 

Using  mop  and  duster,  washboard,  oven- 
broom, 

Scissors,  thread  and  needle,  as  might  chance 
to  come : 


1840-50.] 


FRANCES    D.    GAGE. 


397 


Mixing  play  and  labor,  ever  cheerfully ; 
Learned  I  life's  best  lessons — learned  I  to 
be  free. 

Conning  these  best   lessons,  poring  over 

books, 

Dreaming  of  the  future,  in  the  quiet  nooks, 
Gleaning,  ever  gleaning,  as  the  days  went 

by, 

Thinking,  never  shrinking,  not  afraid  to  try; 
Mixing  play  and  labor,  ever  joyously, 
Learned  I  life's  great  lessons — learned  I 
to  be  free. 


MY  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

I  USED  to  think,  when  I,  a  child, 

Played  with  the  pebbles  on  the  shore 
Of  the  clear  river  rippling  wild, 

That  rolled  before  my  father's  door, 
How  long,  how  very  long  'twould  be, 

Ere  I  could  live  out  fifty  years; 
To  think  of  it  oft  checked  my  glee, 

And  filled  my  childish  heart  with  fears. 

I  looked  at  grandma,  as  she  sat, 

Her  forehead  decked  with  silvery  rime, 
And  thought,  "When  I'm  as  old  as  that, 

Must  I  darn  stockings  all  the  time  ? 
Must  I  sit  in  an  arm-chair  so, 

A  white  frilled  cap  around  my  face, 
With  dull  drab  strings,  and  ne'er  a  bow, 

And  keep  things  always  in  their  place  ?" 

The  lines  of  care,  the  sigh  of  pain, 
The  "hush!"  her  lips  so  oft  let  fall, 

Made  me  wish,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
I  never  might  grow  old  at  all. 

Yet  she  was  ever  cheerful,  and 

Would    ofttimes    join    our    sport    and 

mirth ; 
And  many  a  play  by  her  was  planned, 

Around  the  winter  evening  hearth. 


But  then  she  played  not  by  the  brook, 

She  did  not  gather  pretty  flowers, 
She  did  not  sing  with  merry  look, 

Nor  make  a  spring-time  of  the  hours. 
So,  when  she  said,  one  sunny  morn, 

"You  will  be  old,  like  me,  some  day," 
I  wept  like  one  of  hope  forlorn, 

And  threw  my  playthings  all  away. 

Be  old !  like  grandma,  and  not  roam 

The  glen  in  spring,  for  violets  blue, 
Or  bring  the  bright  May  blossoms  home, 

Or  pick  the  strawberries  'mong  the  dew  ! 
Be  old  !  and,  in  the  summer  time, 

Take  weary  naps  in  midday  hours, 
And  fail  the  pippin-trees  to  climb, 

And  shake  the  ripening  fruit  in  showers ! 

Be  old !  and  have  no  nutting-bees 
Upon  the  hill-side,  rustling  brown, 

Nor  hang  upon  the  vine-clad  trees, 

And  shout  the  rich  grape  clusters  down. 

Be  old !  and  sit  round  wint'ry  fires  ; 

Be  fifty  ! — have  no  sliding  spree, 
And  hush  away  all  wild  desires! — 

I  thought  'twere  better  not  to  be. 

But  two  score  years  have  glided  by, 

With  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 
With  sunny  hours  and  clouded  sky, 

Till  now  I'm  fifty — now  I'm  old ! 
The  sun-burnt  locks  are  silvery  now, 

That  used  to  tangle  in  the  wind ; 
And  eyes  are  dim,  and  feet  move  slow, 

That  left  my  playmates  all  behind. 

Spectacles  lie  upon  my  nose, 

But  no  white  frill  looks  prim  and  cold ; 
My  gray  hair  curls ;  I  wear  pink  bows — 

I  do  not  feel  so  very  old. 

A  play  among  the  pebbles  I 

Would  love,  on  that  familiar  shore, 

Where  once  I  watched  the  swallows  fly 
The  dancing,  rippling  waters  o'er  ; 


398 


FRANCES    D.    GAGE. 


[1840-50. 


I'd  like  to  climb  the  apple-tree, 

Where  once  the  spicy  sweeting  grew ; 

Make  grape-vine  swings,  and  have  a  glee  ; 
But  I  am  fifty — 'twouldn't  do. 

I'd  like  to  go  a  nutting  now, 
And  gather  violets  in  the  glen  ; 

And  wreathe  the  wild  flowers   round  my 

brow, 
As  well  as  e'er  I  did  at  ten. 

I'd  like  a  slide  upon  the  pond — 

To  watch  the  old  mill  struggling  there 

In  icy  chains,  while  all  beyond 

Was  one  broad  mirror,  cold  and  glare. 

I'd  like  to  see  the  noisy  school, 
Let  out  a-nooning,  as  of  old — 

Play  "Lost  my  glove,"  and  "Mind  the  rule." 
My  heart  throbs  quick — it  is  not  cold. 

I'm  fifty — but  I  am  not  sad — 
I  see  no  gloom  in  ripening  years ; 

My  hopes  are  bright,  my  spirit  glad — 
How  vain  were  all  my  childish  fears ! 

My  childish  sports,  I  loved  them  then ; 

I  love  to  think  them  over  still — 
To  shut  my  eyes  and  dream  again 

Of  silvery  stream,  and  woodland  hill. 
Bat  life  has  pleasures  holier  still 

Than  childhood's  play,  with  all  its  zest, 
That,  as  we  journey  down  the  hill, 

Makes  each  succeeding  year  the  best. 

There're  stalwart  men  beside  my  hearth, 

And  "bonny  lasses"  laughing  free, 
That  had  not  lived  on  this  good  earth, 

To  love  and  labor,  but  for  me ; 
And  shall  I  pine  for  childhood  joys, 

For  woodland  walks,  and  violets  blue, 
While  round  me  merry  girls  and  boys 

Are  doing  what  I  used  to  do  ? 

My  days  of  toil,  my  years  of  care, 
Have  never  chilled  my  spirit's  flow, 

Or  made  one  flower  of  life  less  fair 
Than  in  the  spring-time,  long  ago. 


The  paths  I've  trod  were  sometimes  rough, 
And  sharp  and  piercing  to  my  feet ; 

Yet  there  were  daisied  walks  enough 
To  make  it  all  seem  smooth  and  sweet. 

Friends   that  I   loved  have  passed  from 
sight 

Before  me,  to  the  spirit  home ; 
But  in  the  day  that  knows  no  night, 

I  know  they'll  greet  me  when  I  come. 
Hopes  that  I've  cherished,  too,  were  vain ; 

But  I  have  lived  to  feel  and  know, 
That,  were  life  to  live  o'er  again, 

'Twere  better  that  it  should  be  so. 

At  every  winding  of  the  way, 

I've    sought   for   love,  and   love   have 

given ; 
For  love  can  cheer  the  darkest  day, 

And  make  the  poorest  home  a  heaven. 

Oh !  ye,  who're  passing  down,  like  me, 

Life's  autumn  side,  be  brave  and  strong, 
And  teach  the  lisper  at  your  knee, 

That  fifty  years  is  not  so  long — 
That  if  they  would  be  ever  young, 

And  free  from  dolorous  pain  and  care, 
The  life-harp  must  be  ever  strung 

With  love  of  duty,  every  where. 

As  violins,  in  foreign  lands, 

Broken  and  shattered  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  mended,  and  in  skillful  hands, 

Make  sweeter  music  than  before, 
So,  oft  the  heart,  by  sorrow  torn, 

Gives  forth  a  loftier,  clearer  song, 
Than  that  which  greeted  us  at  morn, 

When  it  was  new,  and  brave,  and  strong. 

Father,  I  thank  thee  for  them  all, 

These  fifty  years  which  now  are  past ; 
Oh !  guide  me,  guard  me,  till  the  pall 

Of  death  my  form  shall  hide  at  last. 
Let  me,  in  love  and  kindness,  still 

Live  on,  nor  e'er  grow  hard  and  cold ; 
Bend  me,  and  break  me  to  thy  will, 

But  may  my  spirit  ne'er  grow  old. 


JANE  MARIA  MEAD. 


JANE  MARIA  MEAD,  a  native  of  Paris,  Maine,  was  born  on  the  twenty-first  day 
of  December,  1811.  Her  father  was  a  physician.  When  Jane  was  a  young  girl  he 
migrated  to  the  West.  Since  the  year  1834  her  home  has  been  in  Ohio.  In  1835 
she  was  married,  at  Maumee  City,  to  Whitman  Mead,  who  was  a  prominent  lawyer 
in  northern  Ohio  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  but  who  has,  for  the  most  part,  exchanged 
Blackstone  and  the  subtleties  of  the  law  for  a  more  congenial  pursuit,  farming. 
He  resides  near  the  town  of  Medina. 

Mrs.  Mead  has  been,  since  1850,  an  occasional  writer  for  the  Louisville  Journal  and 
the  New  York  Tribune,  and  was  one  of  the  regular  contributors  of  the  Genius  of  the 
West,  published  in  Cincinnati  from  1853  to  1856.  Her  writings  are  marked  by  ele 
vation  of  thought  and  purity  of  style,  and  her  poetry  partakes  largely  of  a  sober  and 
devotional  feeling  which  indicates  her  Puritan  ancestry.  The  Louisville  Journal  said 
of  her  poems — "  they  are  pure  diamonds  polished  with  the  most  skillful  art." 


NATIONAL  ODE. 

COLUMBIA  !  lift  thy  starry  eyes, 

And  weej)  o'er  ruined  hopes  no  more ; 
The  sun  still  shines  in  yonder  skies, 

Though    lightnings  leap  and   thunders 

roar; 
Then  from  thy  garments  shake  the  dust, 

And  smooth  thy  brow,  and  smile  at  care : 
Daughter  of  Heaven !  'tis  thine  to  trust, 

And  never  breathe  the  word,  despair. 
Our  fearless  sires — uncheered,  unshod — 
Through  fire,  and  flood,  and  tempest  trod, 
And  conquered,  "in  the  name  of  God." 

Comrades !  the  very  stars  have  stooped 
To  light  the  hero  on  his  way ; 

Through  war  and  peace,  in  glory  grouped, 
Undimmed,    their    beams    of    splendor 


play. 


They  lead  the  legions  of  the  free ; 

They  watch  above  the  soldier's  bier; 
They  guard  our  rights  on  land  and  sea — 

In  doubt,  in  darkness,  doubly  dear. 
Through    years    of   peace — 'neath    war- 
clouds  dun — 

Till  death,  will  every  father's  son 
Defend  the  flag  our  fathers  won. 

Can  we  forget  the  men  that  trode 

The  ranks  of  death  with  iron  will  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  blood  that  flowed 

At  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill  ? 
No !     By  the  memory  of  the  Brave 

Who  sleep  in  glory's  hallowed  bed — 
By  every  sainted  mound  and  wave, 

Each  drop  of  blood,  for  Freedom  shed, 
Shall  prove  a  seed  will  rise  again — 
A  harvest  vast  of  mighty  men, 


Invincible  with  sword  and  pen. 
(399) 


400 


JANE    M.    MEAD. 


[1840-50. 


From  sea  to  sea,  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  stripes  must  wave,  the  stars  must 

burn, 
While  mountains  rise  or  rivers  roll. 

To  them   the  world's   oppressed   shall 

turn, 
To  them  the  oppressor  look  with  awe, 

And  learn  a  tyrant's  arm  is  clay, 
A  tyrant's  scepter  but  a  straw ; 

And    till   the   reign   of    Wrong   gives 

way, 

Above  our  father's  martyred  dust, 
We  swear:   Our   swords   shall   right  the 

Just, 
Or  ever  in  their  scabbards  rust ! 


OUR  NATIVE  LAND.* 

THE  home  of  our  hearts — in  a  palace  or 

cot, 
Be  the  climate  serene,  or  all   frigid   the 

spot, — 
'Mid  Arno's  green  vales  or  the  desert's  hot 

sand — 

The  sweetest  of  climes — is  our  dear  Na 
tive  Land. 
Though  never  so  rugged,  and  wint'ry,  and 

wild, 
Who  loves  not  the  sod  that  he  loved  when 

a  child? 
Who  loves  not  the  wood  where  in  boyhood 

he  strayed — 
The  green  where  he  sported,  the  games  that 

he  played  ? — 

The   stream   that   rushed  down  from  its 

home  in  the  hill? 
The   river   that   rolled  by  the   clattering 

mill? 


*  Inscribed  to  a  friend  during  his  absence  in  Europe. 


The  dam  the  lithe  fishes  o'erleaped  in  their 

play? 
The  rocks  shooting  up  through  a  tempest 

of  spray? 
The  sacred  old  homestead,  all  shorn  of  its 

pride, 
Where  loved  ones  were  born  and  lamented 

ones  died? 
The  hay-mow,  the  garden,  the  orchard,  the 

well, 
Whose  cool-dripping  waters  chimed  soft  as 

they  fell? 

A  light  gilds  the  wave  where  he  tossed 
the  first  hook, 

To  catch  the  bright  minnows  that  glanced 
through  the  brook! 

His  time-sobered  pulses  with  boyhood  re- 
thrill, 

Where  shot  his  fleet  sleet  down  the  snow- 
covered  hill; 

Where,  pausing  at  morn,  on  his  pathway 
to  school, 

He  plied  his  new  skates  on  the  ice-coated 
pool, 

Or  waded  the  drifts  that  were  piled  by  the 
storm 

To  print,  on  the  snow-banks,  his  ftolicsome 
form. 

0 !  mem'ry  paints  raptures,  that  manhood, 
in  vain 

Would  barter  the  wealth  of  a  world  to  re 
gain, 

And  clothes,  with  a  halo  of  beauty  and 
truth, 

The  friends  of  his  boyhood,  the  home  of 
his  youth ; 

Though  life  may  have  charms  on  a  far, 
foreign  shore, 

He  sighs  as  he  asks :  "  Shall  I  see  them 
no  more?" 

An  alien,  'mid  scenes  the  most  lovely  or 
grand, 

The  heart  has  no  home  but  its  dear  Na 
tive  Land. 


SULLIVAN    DWIGHT   HARRIS. 


SULLIVAN  D.  HARRIS  is  a  native  of  Vermont,  born  at  Middlebury  in  1812.  Living 
upon  a  farm  he  early  cherished  a  love  of  rural  seclusion,  and  while  only  a  lad  was  ac 
cepted  as  a  contributor  of  verses  for  the  village  newspapers.  He  was  married  at 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  removed  to  Ohio  in  1836,  where  he  was  variously  occupied  as 
farmer,  painter  and  teacher,  in  the  counties  of  Ashtabula  and  Trumbull,  until  1851, 
when  he  was  engaged  as  associate  editor  of  the  Ohio  Cultivator,  of  which  publication 
he  became  proprietor  in  1855,  and  has  since  devoted  himself  entirely  to  the  duties  of 
that  office.  With  Mr.  Harris,  poetry  was  an  early  and  cherished  passion,  but  the 
wilting  of  verse  was  only  a  casual  amusement,  which  he  reckons  among  his  juvenile 
indiscretions,  and  has  abandoned  for  the  more  pressing  duties  of  practical  literature, 
only  to  be  indulged  in  at  the  solicitation  of  personal  friends  whom  he  is  too  good-na 
tured  to  refuse.  For  this  cause  most  of  his  riper  productions,  in  this  line,  are  too 
strictly  personal  and  occasional  for  general  publication. 


THE  HEART'S  CHALLENGE. 

THOU  dost  not  love  me ! 
How  like  an  adder's  fold  about  my  heart, 
Icing  its  warm  pulsations,  as  it  beats 
The  lonely  marches  of  my  hermit  soul ! 
How  like  a  coil  of  very  misery 
It   smothers    down    the   scarcely   issuing 

breath, 
When   it   would    syllable   that   treasured 

name. 


I  may  not  chide  thee, 
For  thy  eagle  spirit  hath  a  loftier  aim, 
Than  to  be  fettered  with  the  loves  of 

earth — 
Poor  loves,  that  cannot  recompense  the 

rich 

And  holy  treasures  of  a  heart  like  thine. 
I  may  not  chide  thee,  for  thy  minstrelsy 
Hath  charmed  a  listening  nation's  ear: 


and  why 


26 


Shouldst  heed  the  praise  of  one  poor  lip 

like  mine  ? 
As  soon  mightst  cull  the  mallow  at  thy  foot, 


While   regal 
blooms. 

Canst   thou 


rose-trees    proffer   peerless 


But  say,  proud  Empress  ! 
e'er  forget   what  time  thine 


other  self — 
Thy  woman-soul,  didst  thrill  in  heart  com- 

munings, 
Such   as   did   savor   less   of    earth    than 

heaven  ? 

I  know  thou  wilt  not  forget  the  hours, 
Wherein,    with     low-voiced    breath,    we 

ranged  at  will, 

Amid  the  mazes  of  a  world  unseen, 
And  felt  the  flittings  of  the  angels'  wings, 
As  plucking  from   our  lips   the   embryo 

thoughts, 

They  bore  them  off  like  dewy  olive-leaves, 
To  garner  with  the  fruits  of  Hope  and 


Peace. 


(401) 


40-2 


SULLIVAN    D.    HARRIS. 


[1840-50. 


Thou  dost  not  love  me ! 
Though  my  spirit-life  hath  hovered  o'er 

thee, 

And  like  a  guardian  angel,  scared  away 
The  troops  of  red-eyed  demons  from  thy 

path, 
And  watching  o'er  thy  pillow,  caught  the 

smile 
That   played   upon   thy  slumberous  lips, 

what  time 
Thy  soaring   spirit   bathed   in   rupturous 

dreams. 
Thou   dar'st  not  love  me!  for  a  mighty 

spell 

Hath  chained  the  fountain  of  thy  inner  life 
And  made  thee  coward  to  the  high  re 
solve — 
Daring  to  be  thyself. 


A  SONG  FOR  OHIO. 

WHEN  the  God  of  our  fathers  looked  over 

this  land, 
To  choose  out  a  country  most  worthy 

possessing, 

Where  the  rivers  and  plains  ever  beaute 
ous  and  grand, 
Might  so  constantly  smile  on  the  light 

of  his  blessing. 
From   Erie's   broad   waves   to   the  river 

below, 
The    Scioto's    sparkle   and  the  Musking- 

um's  flow, 

And  the  graceful  Miamis  together  re 
joice, 

And  bless  the  All-Father  with  silver- 
toned  voice. 

'Twas  here  the  good  angel  encamped  with 

his  host 

To  cheer  the  brave  woodman,  'mid  his 
toil  and  privation, 


Whose  sturdy  ax  fell,  never  grudging  the 

cost, 
To  rear  up  such  a  State,  as  the  gem  of 

the  nation  ; 

Then  join  all  your  voices  in  grateful  ac 
claim, 
'Tis  the  triumph  of  toil  in  Jehovah's  great 

name. 
Our  sons    and  our  daughters   together 

may  sing, 

The  Might  is  the  Right,  and  the  Farmer 
is  King. 

And  here  we  are  gathered,  from  farm  and 

from  town, 
To  behold  and  rejoice  in  each    other's 

progression, 
So  let  the  world  wag,  in  its  up  and  its 

down, 
We  are  proud  of  a  hand  in  this  noble 

profession, 
Where  the  sweat  of  our  face  shall  earn  us 

our  bread, 
And  the  angels  of  peace  shall  pillow  our 

head. 
We  are  joined  in  a  band  no  tyrant  can 

sever — 

Hurrah   for   the    Farmer,  forever  and 
ever! 


SONG  OF  THE  HARVESTERS. 

WE  gather   them   in — the    bright   green 
leaves, 

With  our  scythes  and  rakes  to-day, 
And  the  mow  grows  big,  as  the  pitcher 
heaves 

His  lifts  in  the  sweltering  bay. 
O  ho !  afield !  for  the  mower's  scythe, 

Hath  a  ring  as  of  destiny, 
Sweeping  the  earth  of  its  burthen  lithe, 

As  it  sings  in  wrathml  glee. 

We  gather  them  in — the  nodding  plumes 
Of  the  yellow  and  bended  grain, 


1840-50.] 


SULLIVAN    D.    HARRIS. 


403 


And  the  flash  of  our  sickles'  light  illumes 
Our  march  o'er  the  vanquished  plain. 

Anon  we  come  with  the  steed-drawn  car — 
The  cunning  of  modern  laws, 

And  the  acres  stoop  to  its  clanging  jar, 
As  it  reeks  its  hungry  jaws. 

We  gather  them  in — the  mellow  fruits 

From  the  shrub,  and  vine,  and  tree, 
With  their  russet,  and  golden,  and  purple 
suits, 

To  garnish  our  treasury ; 
And  each  hath  a  juicy  treasure  stored 

All  aneath  its  tinted  rind, 
To  cheer  our  guests  at  the  social  board 

When  we  leave  our  cares  behind. 

We  gather  them  in — this  goodly  store, 

But  not  with  the  miser's  gust, 
For  the  Great  All-Father  we  adore 

Hath  but  given  it  in  trust. 
And  our  work  of  death,  is  but  for  life, 

In  the  wint'ry  days  to  come, — 
Then  a  blessing  upon  the  Reaper's  strife, 

And  a  shout  at  his  Harvest  Home. 


TO  MY  VALENTINE. 

AH  !  Mollie  mine,  'tis  a  long  time  ago, 
Since  under  the  hawthorn  I  ventured  to 

woo; 
The  stars  winked  approvingly  far  in  the 

sky, 
But  what  were  all  these  to  the  heaven  in 

thine  eye  ? 
The  bland  breeze  of  Spring  and  the  white 

flowers  above, 
Were  meeting  in  dalliance,  to  wanton  in 

love: 
Whilst     pure    as    that     blossom     which 

freighted  the  breeze, 
As   warm    as    the    zephyr    that    sighed 

through  the  trees, 


Were  the  hearts  which  communed  in 
Love's  opening  hour, 

And  confessed  to  the  might  of  its  master 
ing  power. 

How  few  were  our  years!  with  Hope's 
tintings  how  bright ! 

'Twas  a  day-dream  of  childhood — a  gush 
of  delight ! 

And  Passion's  young  wave  flowing  peace 
fully  on, 

But  blended  our  hopes  and  our  homes  into 
one; 

And  thou  hast  been  still,  from  that  day  of 
"  lang-syne," 

Through  storm  and  fair  weather,  my  own 
Valentine. 


LOVE'S  TYRANNY. 

AH  !  me.     A  witching  shape  hath  bound 
This  hapless  soul  with  silken  cords, 

Which  may  not  loose,  'till  I  have  found 
A  sonnet  of  undying  words. 

O  !  touch  my  pen  with  living  fire, 
And,  passive  to  her  slightest  nod, 

The  words  shall  glow — despite  His  ire — 
Emblazoned  on  the  throne  of  God ! 

And  whilst  the  universe  may  read 
The  challenged  sonnet  evermore, 

She  may  accept  the  damning  deed, 
And  thus  undo  my  prison-door. 

Presumptuous?  ha!  am  I  a  slave 

To  sit  me  quiet  evenvhile  ? 
There's  not  a  hell  I  would  not  brave, 

To  compass  such  a  woman's  smile ! 

And  when  iier  smile  my  deed  had  won, 

And  I  was  free  to  go  at  will, 
Her  fetters  would  again  put  on 

And  bind  my  soul  her  captive  still. 


AMANDA   L.  RUTER   DUFOUR. 


AMONG  the  early  pioneer  preachers  of  the  Territory  of  Indiana,  few  were  more 
esteemed,  or  will  be  longer  remembered,  than  Calvin  W.  Ruter.  Born  in  Vermont, 
and  left,  in  early  childhood,  in  humble  circumstances,  to  the  care  of  a  widowed  mother, 
who  was  a  native  of  England  and  a  woman  of  unconquerable  energy,  the  young  lad 
sought,  in  self-culture,  the  advantages  of  education  which  fortune  had  denied  him. 
He  used  to  gather  brushwood  in  the  Vermont  mountains,  and  arrange  it  as  torches,  by 
the  light  of  which  he  was  wont  to  study  throughout  the  long  winter  evenings. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  emigrated  to  the  then  frontier  settlements  of  the  West, 
and  there  entered  upon  the  laborious  life,  full  of  hardships  and  privations,  of  an  itin 
erant  minister  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  Trained  in  a  stern  school  and 
inheriting  all  the  vigor  and  perseverance  of  his  mother,  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who,  without  a  taint  of  intolerance,  have  that  about  them  out  of  which  martyrs  are 
made.  Earnest  in  his  own  opinions,  he  yet  spoke  with  charity  of  all  other  sects,  and 
was  in  the  habit  of  inviting  preachers  of  other  denominations  to  share  the  hospitality 
of  his  house,  never  claiming  Methodism  as  the  exclusive  road  to  heaven. 

In  1821  he  married  Harriet,  daughter  of  a  once  wealthy  Virginian,  Michael  Haas, 
of  German  origin,  who,  from  conscientious  motives,  had  manumitted  all  his  slaves  and 
emigrated  to  Indiana.  Barbara,  one  of  these  slaves,  threw  her  free  papers  into  the 
fire,  followed  the  fortunes  of  her  master,  and  died  in  the  family.  In  the  daughter, 
Mr.  Ruter  obtained  a  wife  of  the  most  benevolent  character,  much  of  whose  life  was 
spent  in  deeds  of  charity. 

To  them  was  born,  in  Jefferson ville,  Indiana,  and  in  the  year  1822,  Amanda  Lou 
isa,  the  subject  of  the  present  biographical  notice.  The  years  of  her  earliest  child 
hood  were  spent  on  a  farm  near  Lexington,  Indiana.  Adjacent  to  the  house  was  a 
beautiful  woodland  pasture,  in  which  had  been  rudely  constructed  a  rustic  bower ;  and 
there  the  solitary  child  used  to  sit  alone  for  hours,  while  rhymes  came  to  her  even 
before  she  could  read.  When  she  was  eight  years  of  age,  her  father  removed  to  New 
Albany,  where  her  youth  was  passed.  There  the  picturesque  "Knobs"  were  her 
play-ground,  and  the  scene  of  her  earliest  inspirations. 

Conflicting  circumstances  conspired  materially  to  influence  her  character.  On  the 
one  hand  her  father,  a  man  of  melancholy  temperament  and  studious  habits,  required 
absolute  quiet  in  his  household ;  and  this  gave  the  child  many  hours  for  lonely  reflec 
tion  and  for  the  study  of  books.  She  began  to  commit  her  own  thoughts  to  paper, 
and  these  usually  assumed  a  poetical  form.  She  possessed  herself  of  some  elementary 
Latin  works  from  her  father's  library,  and  sought  to  teach  herself  that  language. 
But  her  mother's  health  failing,  so  that  many  of  the  domestic  duties  devolved  on  her 
child,  she  was  fain  to  lock  away  from  the  young  student  not  only  books  but  writing 
materials,  lest  the  household  cares  should  be  neglected. 

(404) 


1840-50.]  AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR.  405 

After  a  time  the  daughter  was  sent  to  such  a  school  as,  in  those  early  days,  was  to 
be  found ;  and  there  the  avidity  with  which  she  applied  her  mind  to  study  injured  her 
health.  She  persevered,  however,  until  she  had  acquired  all  that  her  teachers  could 
communicate,  and  had  herself  mastered  the  usual  qualifications  of  a  teacher.  Of 
these,  as  her  father's  flock  was  poor  and  his  means  limited,  she  subsequently  availed 
herself,  keeping  school  at  Rising  Sun,  in  order  to  aid  her  parents  and  to  procure,  for 
herself,  the  means  of  purchasing  the  books  she  craved. 

Her  childhood  and  youth  might  truly  be  said  to  have  been  spent  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  under  difficulties.  Yet,  withal,  her  early  years  were  happy  ones — happy 
whenever  she  could  stray  off  to  commune  with  that  nature,  of  which  the  beauties  pos 
sessed,  for  her  warm,  poetic  temperament,  ever  an  invigorating  freshness  and  a  myste 
rious  charm :  happy,  too,  in  the  cheerful  glow  which  a  loving  mother's  affection  shed 
over  a  quiet  home.  To  this  the  daughter,  in  after-years,  paid  a  grateful  tribute. 

Amanda  Ruter  had  an  early  and  earnest  desire  to  travel ;  to  witness,  in  other  lands, 
the  scenes  and  wonders  of  which  she  had  read ;  and  there  to  gather  that  varied 
knowledge  and  experience  which  at  home,  except  through  the  imperfect  medium  of 
report,  is  beyond  our  reach.  But  her  wishes  were  not  destined  to  be  gratified.  She 
grew  up  to  adult  age  without  having  once  left  her  native  State ;  and  there,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  was  united  in  marriage  to  Oliver  Dufour,  then  of  New  Albany.  Her  hus 
band,  like  herself,  was  a  native  of  Indiana — son  of  John  Francis  Dufour,  from  Mon- 
treaux,  near  Vevay,  in  Switzerland.  This  gentleman  came  to  the  West  in  1801, 
when  it  was  all  a  wilderness.  In  1809  he  settled  on  the  spot  where  Vevay  (Indiana) 
now  stands,  then  a  dense,  unbroken  forest;  and  he  laid  out  the  town  in  1813,  calling 
it  after  his  beautiful  native  place,  on  the  Leman  Lake.  The  first  cabin  erected  by 
him  may  still  be  seen  on  Main  Cross  street.  He  was  the  first  settler  west  of  the 
mountains  who  ever  made  wine.  He  sent  a  sample  of  the  first  vintage  to  Thomas 
Jefferson,  then  President.  It  so  happened  that  about  the  same  time  some  one  had 
sent  to  the  President  a  bottle  of  water  from  the  Mississippi.  The  water  and  wine, 
both  from  the  Western  wilderness,  were  united,  and  were  drank  together. 

Oliver  Dufour,  the  son,  is  well  known  throughout  Indiana,  from  his  connection  with 
Odd  Fellowship.  He  was  elected  Grand  Master  in  1851,  and  in  1852  Representative 
to  the  Grand  Lodge  of  the  United  States.  In  1853  he  was  a  member  of  the  State 
Legislature,  and  in  1854  received  from  President  Pierce  an  appointment  in  the  Gen 
eral  Land  Office. 

Until  the  removal  to  Washington,  consequent  upon  this  appointment,  Mrs.  Dufour 
had  remained  a  resident  of  Indiana.  She  is  emphatically,  therefore,  a  child  of  the 
West,  by  birth,  by  education,  by  marriage,  by  residence.  Her  poetical  talents  are  ex 
clusively  of  Western  culture.  Add  to  this,  that  the  constantly  multiplying  cares  of 
an  increasing  family  have  so  far  engrossed  her  life,  that  they  left  but  brief  intervals 
of  quiet  leisure,  either  for  the  cultivation  or  the  exercise  of  her  poetical  powers. 
Still,  under  every  discouragement,  she  wrote.  "  Out  of  the  fullness  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  speaketh."  Many  of  her  fugitive  pieces  graced,  from  time  to  time,  the  columns 


406 


AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR. 


[1840-50. 


of  the  Louisville  Journal,  the  Odd  Fellows'  Ark,  at  Columbus,  Ohio,  and  other  West 
ern  periodicals. 

A  good  many  of  Mrs.  Dufour's  productions  are  of  a  devotional  character ;  and 
these  breathe  the  spirit  of  mingled  piety  and  charity,  which  she  may  have  inherited 
from  her  father.  Her  lines  on  "  Thought,"  fraught  with  genuine  feeling  and  charac 
terized  by  graceful  imagery,  are  from  an  elaborate  poem  unpublished.  A  wild  tone 
of  sadness  runs  through  many  of  this  author's  pieces; — whether,  like  her  piety,  a  pater 
nal  inheritance,  or  whether  born  of  those  sad  experiences  of  the  world  that  so  often 
tell  upon  a  sensitive  and  poetic  nature,  we  can  only  conjecture.  But  there  is  nothing, 
however,  of  idle  and  sickly  sentimentality  in  this  strain  of  sadness ;  it  breathes  from 
a  heart  strengthened  by  hope  and  courage,  for  all  the  duties  of  life. 

Her  lines  entitled  "  Confession  "  might  alone  establish  Mrs.  Dufour's  title  to  the 
inborn  poetic  temperament.  There  is  no  true  poet  who,  in  moments  of  inspiration, 
has  not  embodied  and  addressed  the  ideal.  And  there  is  no  better  test  of  the  depth 
and  purity  of  the  poetic  vein  than  the  tone  and  manner  of  such  an  address.  Its  im 
passioned  lines  are  wont  to  disclose  all  that  is  noblest  at  once  and  warmest,  in  the 
inner  heart  of  the  writer ;  and  in  them,  therefore,  we  may  seek,  with  best  chance  of 
obtaining  a  clew  to  the  just  appreciation  of  the  character,  and  just  estimate  of  the 
genius  which  thus  conceives  and  pictures,  not  what  is,  but  what  might  be ;  not  what 
we  ever  find  in  this  world,  but  still,  what  we  can  imagine,  and  may  hope,  perhaps, 
to  meet  with  in  another. 


THOU  COMEST  NOT. 

THOU  comest  not !     The  sweet  wild  rose 

of  Summer 
Long    days     ago,    its    latest    perfume 

shed; 
The  harvest  fruits  have  ripened  and  been 

garnered, 

The  blithe  bird-songsters  from  the  bowers 
are  fled. 

Thou  comest  not !     The  rainbow  tints  of 

Autumn, 
Sprinkled,  like  shattered  gems,  o'er  hill 

and  dell, 
Are  faded  now,  and  through  the  leafless 

branches 

Rings  out  the  wild  wind  his  sepulchral 
knell. 


Thou   comest   not !      No    longer  fragrant 

blossoms 
Perfume  the  woodland  and  the  garden 

bowers ; 
Their  withered  leaves  speak  to  my  heart 

of  longings 
That  filled  the  chalice  of  departed  hours. 

Thou  comest  not !     And  yet  the  pale,  pure 

starlight 
Gleams,  as  on  that  sweet  eve  when  first 

we  met ; 

But  on  the  ear  the  moan  of  wint'ry  waters 
Falls,  like  the  echo  of  some  heart's  re 
gret. 

Thou  comest  not!      Alas!  the  hours  are 

numbered 

In  which  our  hearts  might  mingle,  true 
and  free. 


1840-50.] 


AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR. 


407 


To  thee  the  world  has  many  paths  of  glad 
ness, 

To  me  but  one — the  path  to  dreams  of 
thee  ! 


THOUGHT. 

ALL  hail!  free,  holy  Thought !  No  tyrant's 

might, 

Can  fetter  and  imprison  thee,  for  thou 
Art  infinite.  I  wander  in  the  crowd, 
Feeling  alone  with  thee.  And  when  thy 

voice 

Speaks  to  my  soul,  the  voices  of  the  throng 
Fall  on  my  ear  discordant  or  unheard. 
I  love,  oh,  gentle  and  mysterious  Thought, 
To  wait  thy  coming  and  ascend  thy  car, — 
Thy  swift-winged  car  of  light,  in  which  my 

soul 

Is  heavenward  wafted,  in  its  upward  flight. 
I  love  thy  wooing  in  the  midnight  lone, 
When,  save  the  zephyr's  sigh,  no  tone  but 

thine 
Breaks  the  deep  silence.     Then,  like  pale 

star-beam, 
Steals  thy  pure   halo   o'er   my   suffering 

heart. 
And  when  thy  winged  steeds  approach  the 

realm — 
The  shadowy  realm,  where  hopes  and  fears, 

long  dead, 
Wander  on  Lethe's  banks  ;  where  forms 

long  lost, 

But  fondly  cherished,  reappear  once  more ; 
Where  clasp  of  love  I  feel,  so  long  un- 

felt; 
Where  words  I  hear,  were  spoken  years 

ago 
Unto  my  heart  of  hearts :    then  I  knee 

down 

Before  thy  holy  shrine,  celestial  Thought, 
And  bless  thee,  as  my  soul's  divinity. 


BY-GONE  HOURS. 

I'M  thinking  of  the  days,  mother, 

Of  childhood's  happy  days, 
When  all  the  world  was  bright  and  gay, 

And  full  of  gladsome  lays. 

I'm  thinking  of  that  joyous  time, 

When  sitting  by  your  side, 
You  smiled  and  sighed  and  blessed  your 
child, 

With  all  a  parent's  pride. 

Oh,  I  remember  well,  mother, 

In  twilight's  gentle  hour, 
How  soft  the  summer  breezes  were 

Within  our  garden  bower. 

And  how,  when  peaceful  stars  shone  out 
From  the  deep  vault  of  even, 

With  glowing  cheek  you'd  sweetly  speak 
Of  our  sweet  home  in  heaven. 

Those  days  were  very  bright,  mother, 

And  now  they  seem  to  me 
Like  fairy  isles,  far,  far  away, 

Girt  by  a  troubled  sea. 

Ah  !  then  my  heart  had  known  no  care, 
My  eyes  had  wept  no  tears ; 

And  scarce  a  cloud  had  crossed  my  brow 
In  all  those  blissful  years. 


HYMN. 

FATHER,  in  the  skies  above, 

Unto  thee  we  bow  ; 
Shade  us  witli  thy  wings  of  love, 

God,  protect  us  now. 
Keep  us  in  the  paths  of  peace, 

Patient  trust  impart ; 
Sin's  obscuring  stains  erase 

From  each  aching  heart. 


408 


AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR. 


[1840-50. 


Every  passion  grant  us  grace 

Meekly  to  subdue ; 
Let  not  clouds  conceal  thy  face 

From  our  human  view. 
Teach  us  hopefully  to  live, 

Give  us  faith  sincere ; 
Help  us  freely  to  forgive 

Faults  we  all  must  share. 

Let  us  pardon,  let  us  love 

All  our  foes  below  ; 
And  thy  blessings  from  above 

Ask  thee  to  bestow. 
May  our  hearts  fear  none  but  thee, 

May  we  seek  but  heaven, 
Live  but  for  eternity, 

By  thy  love  forgiven. 


REVERIES. 

IN  the  twilight  I  am  sitting, 

Dreamily ; 
O'er  my  soul  are  phantoms  flitting 

Mournfully. 

And  the  winds  without  were  sighing, 
And  within  dark  shadows  lying, 
And  my  restless  heart  keeps  throbbing 
To  the  night-wind's  sobbing,  sobbing 

Plaintively. 

Embers  on  the  hearth-stone  lying 

Fade  away ; 
Emblems,  to  my  spirit  sighing, 

Of  decay. 

So  hope's  light  is  slowly  flitting 
From  my  heart  as  thus  I'm  sitting 

Drearily. 

And  my  lonely  spirit,  roaming, 

Loves  to  flee 
Through  the  past's  uncertain  gloaming, 

Wild  and  free. 


For  amid  her  hours  of  sadness, 
Comes  a  music-tone  of  gladness, 
Comes  a  thrill  of  joy's  sweet  measure 
Echo  of  some  long-lost  pleasure 
O'er  life's  sea. 

Siren  songs  of  days  departed 

Fill  the  air, 
Ere  I  grew  so  weary-hearted, 

Dark  with  care ; 
Ere  the  glorious  wings  of  trust 
Had  trailed  earthward  to  the  dust ; 
And  the  halcyon  days  were  gone, 
Over  which  Love's  summer  shone, 

Warm  and  fair. 

Darker  shadows  now  are  lying 

On  the  floor ; 
And  the  wind  is  sadly  sighing 

Through  the  door. 
Watching  still  the  dying  embers, 
Suddenly  my  soul  remembers 
A  deep  autumn  sky  at  midnight, 
When  the  pale  and  gentle  starlight 

Earth  beamed  o'er. 

I  remember  words  then  spoken, 

Soft  and  low ; 
Vows,  too,  that  have  all  been  broken 

Long  ago. 

Scarcely  yet  the  light  has  faded, 
Scarcely  dead  the  wreath  love  braided, 
Though  within  my  heart  are  lying 
Hope's  last  embers,  fading,  dying, 

Pale  and  low. 

Spirit  mine,  so  wildly  roaming, 

Far  away, 
Cease  to  wander  'mid  the  gloaming, 

No  more  stray : 
Pray  that  hope  be  given, 
Think  of  tranquil  rest  in  heaven, 
Where,  no  more  with  sorrow  laden, 
Souls,  within  that  blessed  Aidenn, 

Dwell  alway. 


1840-50.] 


AMANDA    L.    R.    DUFOUR. 


409 


HOPE  ON. 

TOIL   on,  toil   on!   oh   sore   and   weary- 
hearted, 

Though   shadows  fall  athwart  the  up 
ward  way; 
Though  beauty  seem  to  have  from  earth 

departed, 
And  through  the  gloom  beams  not  one 

cheering  ray. 
Toil  on,  toil  on !     Though  there  be  doubt 

and  danger 
Around  thy  path,  with  dauntless  step 

proceed ; 
Though  Hope  speed  by  thee  as  a  passing 

stranger, 

Forget  not  Him  who  comes  in  hour  of 
need 

Toil  on,  toil  on !  let  not  thy  spirit  falter ; 
The  path  was  thorny  that  thy  Saviour 

trod. 
With  faith's  strong  hold  grasp  the  eternal 

altar, 

And  trust  the  mercy  and  the  love  of  God. 

In  sorrow's  hour  arouse  thy  troubled  spirit, 

Look  round  thee  on  the  suffering  ones 

of  earth ; 

Up,  and  do  good  to  all!  for  all  inherit 
Souls,  like  thine  own,  of  an  immortal 
birth. 

Toil  on  !     Hope  will  return  with  outspread 

pinions, 
And  bear  thee  onward  to  that  realm  of 

light, 

Beyond  the  portals  of  this  earth's  domin 
ions, 
Where  trembling  faith  is  lost  in  glorious 

sight. 
Toil  on,  hope  on  !     To  night  succeedeth 

morning  ; 

No  storm  so  fearful  that  it  lasts  alway. 
Death   comes  at  last ;  greet  joyfully  his 

warning ; 
It  ushers  thee  into  eternal  day. 


CONFESSION. 

MY  senses  wake  to  feeling's  deepest  thrill, 
When  on  mine  ear  the  tones  of  thy  dear 

voice 

Melodious  fall,  like  the  echoes  of  a  harp 
Swept  by  the  evening  winds. 

Thy  presence  wakes 
A  wild,  delirious  joy  within  my  heart, 
Tuning  its  thousand  chords,  with  rapture 

swelled, 
Till  every  throbbing  pulse  leaps  wild  with 

love's 

Intense  emotion,  and  my  very  soul 
Seems  but  a  part  of  thine.     My  life  is  held 
In  sweet  abeyance  to  thy  gentle  will, 
Subdued  and  softened  by  the  genial  glow 
Of  thy  soul-beauty.    Every  star  that  gems 
The  azure  sky,  and  every  music-tone, 
Whispering   to  spirit's   ear,  the   sweetest 


Of  brightest  song-birds,  rare  and   balmy 
sweets 

The  freight  from  thousand  blossoms,  gush 
ing  founts 

In   forest   depths,  where  cooling   zephyrs 
make 

Mysterious  music  at  the  midnight  hour, 

'Midst  emerald  leaves  that  arch  the  lonely 
dell— 

All  breathe  of  thy  .pure  excellence,  thy 
love, 

Fidelity,  and  truth.     A  holy  spell, 

A  soft  enchantment  binds  my  spirit  now, 

For  thou  art  here,  unseen,  indeed  unfelt, 

Save  in  my  heart's  depths. 

Tameless  was  my  soul 

Ere  it  met  thine.     None  knew  the  watch 
word-spell, 

Could  pass  its  portals,  or  subdue  its  will. 

None  held  the  key  to  my  wild,  wayward 
heart 

That  sat,  like  some  sad  hermit  in  his  cell, 

Alone  and  brooding  o'er  its  destiny. 

None    had   explored   the   still,   unbroken 
depths 


41U 


AMANDA    L.    R.   DUFOUR. 


[1840-50. 


Of  its  dark  waters  ;  not  a  tiny  bark 

Had  swept  the  surface  of  its  sunless  waves. 

Love  had  not  entered  there.     Not  one  fair 

flower 
Bloomed  on  its  desert  banks ;  no  verdant 

spot 

Or  sweet  oasis,  with  its  fount  and  bird, 
Cool  shade  or  lofty  palm,  relieved  the  gloom. 
And  thus  it  rose  apart,  an  empty  shrine 
In  a  deserted  isle,  the  naked  rock 
And  -tinned  undergrowth,  with  leafless  limb, 
Its  sole  surroundings. 

Ah  !  the  magic  change 
Since  thy  transcendent  soul,  in  close  em 
brace 
Hath  clasped  my.  soul.     Life,  love,  and 

beauty  clothe 
The  rugged    forms  ;    thou  hast  imparted 

warmth 

And  healthful  vigor  to  an  arid  soil. 
Blossoms  of  fragrance  now  are  springing 

forth, 

And  rarest  fruits  of  tropic  climates  glow, 
And  ripen,  underneath  thy  culture  there. 
A  silver  lake,  translucent  to  its  depths, 
Sleeps  in  calm  beauty  by  the  hallowed  shrine 
Of  glorious  inspiration — haunted  shrine, 
Haunted  by  forms  of  splendor,  where  the 

torch 

Of  true  affection  burns,  as  shines  the  sun 
From  heaven's  purest  depths,  some  sum 
mer  morn, 

Upon  a  world  waking  to  life  and  light 
And  new-born  happiness. 

Beloved  one ! 

Thou  art  the  treasury  wherein  is  stored 
More  wealth  than   would  endow  a  thou- 

>;md  worlds  ; 

And  I  love  thee  with  that  impassioned  trust 
That  angel  bears  to  angel.  For  thy  spirit 
Has  led  my  erring  soul  to  God.  Through 

thee 

I  worship  and  adore  the  Infinite. 
His  glorious  attributes  before  me  rise, 
Reflected  buck  in  thine.     Thy  lofty  mind 
And  master-soul  bear  witness  to  the  power 


And  mighty  skill  of  the  Creating  Hand, 
Moulding  its  proudest  work.    I  love  my  God 
The  more,  because  when  he  created  man 
After  his  image — he  embodied  thee  ! 


TRIBUTE  TO  HUMBOLDT.* 

AYE  !  thou  art  King,  by  noblest  manhood 

crowned, 
King  of  the  realm  of  deep  and  searching 

thought ; 

Thy  name  will  live,  great  Humboldt,  world- 
renowned, 
Immortal    as    the    soul    its    fame    that 

wrought. 

Thy  master-mind  has  grasped  the  infinite, 
Has  fathomed  all  earth's  mysteries,  has 

walked 

Volcanic  aisles  of  strange  and  lurid  light, 
Whose    air    mephitic    human   life    had 

mocked ; 
There  hast  thou  searched,  and  fearless 

trod  and  talked. 

******* 

Thou  hast  no  country ;  for  all  nations  claim 
Thee  for  their  own ;  and  all  have  crowned 

thee  King 
Of  the  vast  realm  of  knowledge ;  and  thy 

name 
All  future  times  shall  honor,  praise  and 

sing. 

Thy  age  should  not  be  counted  here  by  years, 
For  thou  hast  lived  long  centuries  in 

thought; 

Golden  and  ripe  thy  mighty  spirit  nears 
At  last  the  source  from  which  its  strength 

was  caught, 

The  throne  on  high,  at  whose  behest  it 
wrought. 


*  Written  a  short  time  before  the  death  of  the  venera 
ble  philosopher  (May  sixth,  1859)  to  whom  it  is  addressed, 
and  was  suggested  by  a  toast  offered  by  a  Boston  ian  at  a 
banquet  given  by  Joseph  A.  Wright,  the  American  Minis 
ter  at  Berlin,  in  these  words  :  "  Baron  von  Humboldt.  the 
King  of  Science,  the  latchet  of  whose  shoe  other  kings 
are  not  worthy  to  unloose." 


JEDEDIAH   HUNT. 


JEDEDIAH  HUNT  was  born  at  Candor,  Tioga  county,  New  York,  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  day  of  December,  1815.  His  father,  also  named  Jedediah,  was  captain  of  a 
company  of  New  York  Volunteers  in  the  celebrated  battle  of  Lundy's  Lane,  in  1815. 
Jedediah,  jr.  emigrated  to  Ohio  about  the  year  1840.  He  is  now  a  merchant  at  Chilo, 
in  Clermont  county,  Ohio.  Mr.  Hunt  has  been  a  contributor  to  Graham's  Magazine, 
New  York  Home  Journal,  The  Genius  of  the  West,  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  and  other 
Western  journals.  He  published  "The  Cottage  Maid,  a  Tale  in  Rhyme,"  in  a  thin  oc 
tavo,  at  Cincinnati,  in  1847,  and  is  the  author  of  several  popular  prose  articles,  but,  as 
he  says  in  a  note  accompanying  the  poems  contributed  for  this  volume,  is  "not  a  liter 
ary  man  in  the  generally  received  acceptation  of  that  term."  The  pursuit  of  litera 
ture  is  a  recreation  in  such  leisure  as  the  cares  of  an  active  business  life  permit. 


THE  WILLOW  BY  THE  SPRING. 

NEAR  to  my  old  grandfather's  cot, 

A  small  stream  murmurs  by, 
And  from  its  bank  a  spring  pours  out 

Whose  bed  is  never  dry  ; 
Beside  that  spring  a  willow  stands, 

A  tall  and  stately  tree, 
Oh,  wouldst  thou  learn  the  charms  it  hath  ? 
I'll  tell  its  charms  to  thee, — 
The  willow  by  the  spring, 
The  willow  by  the  spring, 
Oh,  may  it  life  and  strength  receive, 
While  time  the  moments  wing. 

My  mother  on  her  bridal  morn, 

Two  twigs  inserted  there, 
And  twining  them  together  close, 

United  thus  the  pair ; 
She  left  them  to  the  charge  of  fate, 

To  flourish  or  to  fade, — 
But  taking  root  they  rapid  grew, 

And  gave  the  spring  its  shade, — 


The  willow  by  the  spring, 

The  willow  by  the  spring, 

Oh,  may  it  live  and  strength  receive, 

While  time  the  moments  wing. 

How  oft  have  I,  when  but  a  child, 

And  e'en  in  later  years, 
Sat  'neath  that  willow's  drooping  boughs, 

And  bathed  its  roots  in  tears ; 
Not  for  a  sadness  which  I  felt, 

From  pains  that  pressed  my  heart, — 
But  memory  with  her  troop  of  thoughts, 
Bade  feeling's  fountain  start, — 
The  willow  by  the  spring, 
The  willow  by  the  spring, 
Oh,  may  it  live  and  strength  receive, 
While  time  the  moments  wing. 

When  on  the  cultured  plains  of  life, 

A  wedded  pair  I  see, 
Who,  true  to  each,  together  cling, 

I  think  upon  that  tree ; 
There,  green  in  age,  it  broadly  spreads 

Its  branches  to  the  sun, — 


(411  ) 


412 


JEDEDIAH    HUNT. 


[1840-50. 


Distinct  two  trunks  appear  in  view, 
And  yet,  they  twain  are  one. 
That  willow  of  my  home, 
That  willow  of  my  home, 
Oh,  may  it  live  to  grace  the  spot, 
A  hundred  years  to  come. 


Bless  God,  beyond  Time's  sterile  shore, 
Are  orbs  that  wax,  but  wane  no  more ; 

For  in  that  world's  translucent  light 
No  shadows  cast  their  deep'ning  gloom ; 

But  glory's  beam,  forever  bright, 
Its  radiant  realms  of  rest  illume  ; 

Such  sunny  scenes,  so  sacred,  fair, 

Be  mine,  to  view,  eternal  there. 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  NIGHT. 

ROLL  on,  O  stately  Queen  of  Night! 

Blot  out  the  stars  that  strew  thy  way, 
And,  rising  up  yon  azure  height, 

Pour  on  my  head  thy  less'ning  ray ; 
My  mind  enjoys  this  pensive  mood 
Of  sober  thought  and  solitude. 

Where   is   the    friend    with   whom    I've 
strayed, 

To  tread  this  old  familiar  walk, 
And  share  the  change,  alternate  made, 

From  grave  to  gay — by  social  talk ; 
Beneath  the  church-yard's  added  heap, 
That  friend  is  laid  in  dreamless  sleep. 

How  somber  peer  the  distant  hills ! 

How  calm  the  aspect  of  the  vale ! 
This  holy  hush  my  bosom  fills 

With  love,  like  some  remembered  tale ; 
Roll  on,  in  solemn  silence  roll, 
And  rouse  the  passions  of  my  soul. 

To  life,  a  solid  peace  impart, 

In  Faith  and  Hope,  give  firmer  trust, 
And  nerve  this  weak  and  trembling  heart 

To  deeds  more  noble,  generous,  just; 
May  light  from  glorious  Truth,  refine 
All  gross  and  sordid  thoughts  of  mine. 

Roll  down,  and  cheer  the  murky  West, 
Leave  earth  alone,  to  gloom  and  me, — 

And  every  breath  that  heaves  my  breast, 
Shall  be,  pale  Queen,  a  theme  to  thee. 


THE  HUMAN  SOUL. 

BROADCAST,  in  nature's  wide  expanse, 
Unnumbered  worlds,  like  gems  are  set, 

And  beam  as  beacons,  to  enhance 
Some  dawning  glories,  distant  yet ; 

But  in  the  scale  which  weighs  the  whole, 

How  far  transcends  one  human  soul! 

For,  all  those  worlds  may  fade  away, 
And  sink  in  dark,  forgetful  night ; 

But  spirit,  "  born  of  endless  day," 
Will  flourish  in  unfading  light ; 

Coeval  with  the  life  of  Him, 

Who  rules  the  highest  cherubim. 


VOICES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

ALTHOUGH  my  mortal  form  is  laid 
Beneath  this  church-yard's  lonely  sod, 

The  debt  was  due,  it  now  is  paid, 
And  I'm  a  king  and  priest  to  God. 

My    sleep,    how   calm — my    peace,   how 

pure,— 

The  world  no  more  can  me  molest ; 
Though    dead   to   friends,   my   soul   sur 
vives 
In  Faith's  unclouded  clime  of  rest. 


PETER   FISHE    REED 


PETER  FISHE  REED,  one  of  the  popular  contributors  to  the  Weekly  Columbian,  a 
paper  started  at  Cincinnati  in  1850,  by  William  B.  Shattuck  and  John  L.  Farnum — 
which  gave  renewed  vitality  for  two  or  three  years  to  Western  literature,  but  when  its 
promise  was  fairest,  became  absorbed  in  a  Daily  Columbian,  which  failed  in  1856 — 
was  VIVA  MONA.  He  wrote  with  spirit  and  often  with  sweetest  melody.  He  was 
then,  and  had  been  for  several  years,  a  house  and  sign  painter  in  Cincinnati,  on  whom 
"the  dews  of  Castalia"  fell  with  a  gentle  influence,  cheering  him  in  many  tasks  which 
had  else  been  irksome,  as  well  as  uncongenial.  We  could  not  write  for  him  so  good 
a  biographic  notice  as  is  contained  in  one  of  his  letters,  not  designed  for  the  public 
eye.  His  friends  will  not  complain  if  we  quote  from  it: 

"I  was  born  at  South  Boston,  May  fifth,  1819.  My  father,  when  I  was  quite 
young,  entered  the  army.  When  I  was  nine  years  of  age  I  lost  my  blessed  mother. 
I  had  then  no  home,  and  was  subject  to  much  hardship,  but  1  need  not  tell  you  that. 
You  must  be  an  orphan,  among  strangers,  and  show  strong  affection  for  poetry,  or 
music  rather  than  for  work,  to  appreciate  my  experience.  Music  and  poetry  were 
my  companions.  As  I  did  not  see  much  music  I  made  it  for  myself.  I  heard  a  tune 
played  by  a  band  in  the  street  not  long  since,  which  I  composed  twenty-five  years 
ago.  I  commenced  life  a  farmer,  and  have  been,  let  me  see,  a  shoemaker,  house  and 
sign  painter,  editor,  doctor,  photographer,  music  teacher,  and  now  am  an  artist — a 
painter  of  portraits  and  landscapes.  I  made  a  small  fortune — invested  it  in  a  farm — 
bad  luck  took  away  from  me  all  but  the  homestead — and  the  fire  took  that.  But  in 
all  my  vicissitudes  I  have  had  friends  whom  I  love  with  an  outflow  of  affection 
which  I  cannot  explain.  I  hope  some  day  to  publish  a  little  book  of  music.  I  have 
a  work  on  Decorative  Painting  ready  for  the  press.  I  have  written  a  Romance,  and 
I  look  forward  to  a  volume  of  Poems." 

We  trust  Mr.  Reed's  poetry  as  well  as  prose  will  find  an  enterprising  publisher,  but 
it  is  only  fair  to  say,  that  his  success  as  a  poet  had  been  more  decided  if  the  versifica 
tion  of  his  chief  poems  had  not  been  obviously  cast  on  peculiar  models  of  modern 
origin. 

Mr.  Reed  is  now  a  citizen  of  Indianapolis,  Indiana.  In  the  pursuit  of  music, 
poetry  and  painting,  at  a  fireside,  to  the  members  of  which  he  is  passionately  devoted — 
though,  as  he  says,  "Melancholy  locked  arms  with  him  long  years  ago" — he  finds  joys 
which  make  the  burden  of  life  pleasant  to  bear. 


(413) 


414 


PETER    F.    REED. 


[1840-50. 


FOUR  DEGREES  OF  LOVE. 

I  ASKED  a  prattling  infant,  while  it  played 

Upon  its  mother's  bosom  with  delight, 
And    while    the   golden    tresses    careless 

strayed 
Around  its  dimpled  shoulders  pure  and 

white — 
"  What  feel'st  thou  for  thy  parent,  gentle 

dove  ?" 
It  smiled  in  innocence  and  lisped,  "'Tis 

love." 

I  asked  a  beauteous  girl,  as  bright  and 

pure 

As  blooming  flowers  of  a  summer  day ; 
Nor  grief,  nor  sadness  from  her  eye  could 

lure 

A  tear,  her  smiling  did  not  chase  away, 
For  with  despair  her  youthful  heart  ne'ev 

strove — 
"What  makes  thee  glad?"  she  laughing 

answered,  "  Love." 

I  asked  a  maid,  whose  eye  had  ceased  to 

glow, 

Or  light  the  beauty  of  her  faded  cheek, 
And  melancholy  sat  upon  her  brow, 

And  grief  was  in  her  smile ; — yet  she 

was  meek, 

And  calm  as  spirits  of  the  realms  above — 
"What  mars  thy  peace?"  she  faintly  whis 
pered,  "Love." 

I  afked  a  loving  wife,  whose  constant  care 
To  cheer  the  loved  one,  was  her  great 
est  pleasure, 

And    strove   incessantly    that    she    might 

share 

The  love  that  was  her  dearest  earthly 
treasure, 

For  virtue  round  their  hearts  her  chaplet 
wove — 

"What  sweetens  woman's  toil?"  she  an 
swered,  "  Love." 


THE  PICTURE  ON  THE  WALL. 

OUR  Lillie  was  fair  as  a  fairy, 

As  modest  and  meek  as  a  dove, 
As  placid  and  pure  as  a  peri, 

But  her  heart  it  was  fuller  of  love. 
And  merry  was  she,  as  a  swallow, 

And    her   smile   it   was    sweeter   than 

all 
The  smiles  that  the  painter,  Apollo, 

Ever  penciled  to  hang  on  the  wall. 

Then  we  trimmed  up  her  bonny  brown 

tresses, 
While    her   dimples    sank    down   in   a 

smile — 
Dressed    her    up    in    the    best    of    her 

dresses, 

Interlaced  in  the  daintiest  style; 
Then    we    called    her    our    sweet    little 

swallow, 

The  bonniest  beauty  of  all. 
And  we  smiled,  as  the  glance  of  Apollo 
Traced   her    picture   to    hang   on    the 
wall. 

But  Lillie  grew  pale,  just  to  teach  us 

That  heaven  had  a  claim  on  its  own, 
And   we   feared   that   the   duplicate   fea 
tures 

Of  Lillie  would  soon  be  alone. 
Then  her  eye  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 

And  her  voice  lost  the  trill  in  its  call, 
And  we  bless'd  then  Apollo,  the  painter, 

For   the    picture    that    hangs   on    the 
wall. 

Now  Lillie  lies  under  the  roses, 

That  wearily  wave  at  her  head, 
But   she   heeds   not,  that  where    she  re 
poses 

Is  chilly,  for  Lillie  is  dead. 
And  this  picture,  that  never  shall  perish, 

Is  all  that  is  left  of  her,  all, 
And  oh,  how  the  image  we  cherish 

Of  Lillie,  that  hangs  on  the  wall. 


1840-50.] 


PETER    F.    REED. 


415 


GLOOM  AND  BLOOM. 

THE  day  is  dark,  and  cloud  and  gloom 
Are  sadly  shadowed  through  my  room. 
The  music  of  the  gentle  rain 
Has  ceased  its  patter  on  the  pane, 
For  shriller  shrieks  and  wilder  song, 
As  swept  by  borean  winds  along — 
But  still  the  sun  is  shining  high 
Above  the  melancholy  sky. 

The  angry  clouds  are  floating  low, 
The  trees  are  swaying  to  and  fro, 
A  deeper  gloom  a  deeper  shade, 
Is  on  the  meadow,  hill  and  glade, 
I  feel,  though  dark  the  shadows  fall, 
My  heart  is  sadder  than  them  all — 
Yet  there's  a  sunny  summer  day 
Whose   bloom  can  drive  the  gloom 
away. 

The  world  is  dark,  its  hearts  are  cold, 
And  to  and  fro  are  swayed  with  gold, 
And  shadows,  from  the  mammon  gale, 
Around  my  moody  spirits  trail 
Until  I  fear  that  earth,  for  gain, 
Will  be  dissolved  in  golden  rain : 

But  there's  a  Sun  of  living  light 
Above  this  melancholy  night. 


DOLLARS  AND  DIMES. 

THERE  is  music  in  the  tinkling  of  the  dol 
lars  and  the  dimes ; 

For  the  root  of  every  evil,  the  mighty  dol 
lar  of  all  climes, 

At  all  times, 

Is  the  idol  of  the  people ;  it  is  made 
The  scepter  that  has  swayed 


All  the  earth ;  and  its  music  is  the  fiat  that 
has  given 

All  the  power  under  heaven  ! 
Aye,  nations  have  been  traitorously  sold 

For  another  nation's  gold. 

Blood  is  spilled,  and  lives  are  wasted, 

Love,  and  joy,  and  peace,  and  friendship, 

all  are  blasted, 
Through  the  music  of  the  dollars  and  the 

dimes. 

******* 
But  Oh !  the  joys  that  intermingle 
With  the  music  of  their  jingle, 
Are  the  phantoms  of  the  sweet  anticipa 
tions 

Of  the  morrows, 

That  come  loaded  down  with  sorrows, 
And  are  swallowed  with  a  strange  infat 
uation  ; 

And  the  gnawing  and  the  burning, 
Of  the  bosom,  in  the  yearning 
After  gold,  is  the  earning, 
For  its  votaries,  a  trouble  that  shall  never 
ease  to  curse  them  and  their  progeny, — 
never ! 


TRUTH. 

TRUTH  is  a  flaming  target ;  broad  and 
bright 

Its  beams  refulgent  glance  athwart  the 
night — 

The  night  of  Error,  that  has  gloomed  the 
land 

Since  first  Creation  came  from  God's  good 
hand — 

And  every  mortal  since  the  world  be 
gan, 

A.n  ill-trained  Archer  of  an  ignorant 
clan. 


BENJAMIN   F.  TAYLOH. 


BENJAMIN  F.  TAYLOR,  a  son  of  Stephen  W.  Taylor,  LL.D.,  late  President  of 
Madison  University,  at  Hamilton,  New  York,  was  born  in  1822,  in  Lowville,  Lewis 
county,  in  the  Empire  State.  Mr.  Taylor  has  written  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
literary  sketches,  and  some  of  the  sweetest  gems  ot  poetry,  that  have  been  penned  in 
the  Western  country.  His  originality  of  thought,  scope  of  imagination,  and  power 
of  language,  are  remarkable.  His  resources  appear  inexhaustible,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  he  has  been  a  writer  for  the  public  press  for  over  a  dozen  years,  and 
suffers  the  wear  and  tear  of  daily  journalism,  having  been,  for  thirteen  years,  one  of 
the  editors  of  the  Chicago  Evening  Journal.  Several  years  ago,  his  first  volume, 
"Attractions  of  Language,"  was  published;  and  in  1855,  Samuel  Hueston,  then  pub 
lisher  of  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  published  a  volume  of  his  editorial  articles, 
with  the  title,  "  January  and  June" — a  new  edition  of  which  was  issued  in  1860,  by 
D.  B.  Cooke  &  Co.,  Chicago.  For  four  years  past,  Mr.  Taylor  has  been  "  making 
unto  himself  a  name  "  as  a  public  lecturer.  His  department  of  the  Journal  being  the 
first  two  columns  on  the  initial  page,  is  justly  popular,  and  his  articles  are  copied 
throughout  the  country.  Mr.  Taylor  resides  at  Wheaton,  on  the  Galena  Railroad, 
twenty-five  miles  from  Chicago. 


RHYMES   OF  THE  RIVER. 

OH,  River  far-flowing, 

How  broad  thou  art  growing, 
And  the  sentinel  Headlands  wait  grimly 
for  thee ; 

And  Euroclydon  urges 

The  bold-riding  surges, 
That  in  white-crested  lines  gallop  in  from 


the  sea. 

Oh,  bright-hearted  river, 
With  crystalline  quiver, 


Like  a  blade  from  its  scabbard,  far  flashing 
abroad ; 

And  I  think,  as  I  gaze 
On  the  tremulous  blaze, 
That  thou  surely  wert  drawn  by  an  angel 
of  God. 

Through  the  black  heart  of  night, 
Leaping  out  to  the  light, 
Thou  art  reeking  with  sunset,  and  dyed 


with  the  dawn  ; 

Cleft  the  emerald  sod — 
Cleft  the  mountains  of  God — 
And  the  shadows  of  roses,  yet  rusted  thereon. 
(416) 


1840-50.] 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR. 


417 


Where  willows  are  weeping, 
Where  shadows  are  sleeping, 
Where  the  frown  of  the  mountain  lies  dark 
on  thy  crest ; 

Arcturus  now  shining, 
Arbutus  now  twining, 
And   "my    Castles   in    Spain"  gleaming 
down  in  thy  breast ; 

Then  disaster'd  and  dim, 
Swinging  sullen  and  grim, 
Where  the  old  ragged  shadows  of  hovels 
are  shed : 

Creeping  in,  creeping  out, 
As  in  dream,  or  in  doubt, 
In  the  reeds  and  the  rushes  slow  rocking 
the  dead. 

Where  all  crimson  and  gold, 
Slowly  home  to  the  fold, 
Do  the  fleecy  clouds  flock  to  the  gateway 
of  Even, 

Then  no  longer  brook-born, 
But  a  way  paved  with  morn, 
Aye,  a  bright  golden  street  to  the  city  of 
heaven ! 

In  the  great  stony  heart 
Of  the  feverish  mart, 
Is   the   throb  of  thy  pulses   pellucid  to 
day; 

By  gray  mossy  ledges, 
By  green  velvet  edges, 
Where   the   corn   waves   its    saber,   thou 
glidest  away ; 

Broad  and  brave,  deep  and  strong, 
Thou  art  lapsing  along, 
And  the  stars  rise  and  fall  on  thy  turbu 
lent  tide, 

As  light  as  the  drifted 
White  swan's  breast  is  lifted, 
Or  the  June  fleet  of  lilies  at  anchor  can 
ride. 

Through  the  close-ordered  ranks 
On  the  forest  fringed  banks, 


With  thy  eddies,  like  children,  at  play  in 
the  shade  j 

Then  unsheathed  in  the  sun, 
Where  they  sleep,  one  by  one, 
By  the  flocks  of  white  villages  flecking 
the  glade. 

And  yet,  gallant  River, 
On-flashing  forever, 

That  hast  cleft  the  broad  world  on  thy  way 
to  the  main, 

1  would  part  from  thee  here, 
With  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
And  a  Hebrew,  read  back  to  thy  fountain 
again. 

Ah,  well  I  remember, 
Ere  dying  December 
Seemed  to  fall  like  a  snow-flake,  and  melt 
on  thy  breast, 

O'er  thy  waters  so  narrow 
The  little  brown  sparrow 
Used  to  send  his  low    song  to  his  mate  on 
the  nest ; 

When  a  silvery  skein 
Wove  of  snow  and  of  rain, 

Thou   didst  wander   at  will  through  the 
bud-laden  land — 

All  the  air  a  sweet  psalm, 
And  the  meadows  a  palm — 

As  a  blue  vein  meanders  a  liberal  hand. 

When  the  schoolmaster's  daughter, 
With  her  hands  scooped  the  water, 
And  then  laughingly  proffered  the  crystal 
to  me, 

O,  there  ne'er  sparkled  up 
A  more  exquisite  cup 
Than  the  pair  of  white  hands  that  were 
brimming  with  thee ! 

And  there  all  together, 
In  bright  summer  weather, 
Did  we  loiter  with  thee,  along  thy  green 
brink ; 


27 


418 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR. 


[1840-50. 


And  how  silent  we  grew 
If  the  robin  came  too, 
When  he  looked  up  to  pray,  and  then  bent 
down  to  drink ! 

9       Ah,  where  are  the  faces 

From  out  thy  still  places, 
That  so  often  smiled  back  in  those  soft 
days  of  May  ? 

As  we  bent  hand  in  hand 
Thou  didst  double  the  band 
As  idle  as  daisies,  and  as  fleeting  as  they. 

Like  a  dawn  in  a  cloud 
Lay  the  babe  in  the  shroud, 
And  a  rose-bud  was  clasped  in  its  frozen 
white  hand : 

At  the  mother's  last  look 
It  had  opened  the  book, 
As  if  sweet-breathing  June  were  abroad 
in  the  land. 

Oh,  pure,  placid  River, 
Make  music  forever 

In  the  gardens  of  Paradise,  hard  by  the 
Throne, 

For  on  thy  fair  shore, 
Gently  drifted  before, 
We  may  find  the  lost  blossoms  that  once 
were  our  own. 

Ah,  beautiful  River, 
Flow  onward  forever, 
Thou  art  grander  than  Avon  and  sweeter 
than  Ayr ; 

If  a  tree  has  been  shaken, 
If  a  star  has  been  taken, 
In  thy  bosom  we  look — bud  and  Pleiad  are 
there ! 

I  take  up  the  old  words, 
Like  the  song  of  dead  birds 

That  was  breathed  when  I  stood  farther  off 
from  the  sea ! 

When  I  heard  not  its  hymn, 
When  the  Headlands  were  dim — 

Shall  I  e'er  weave  again  a  rhythm  for  thee  ? 


JUNE  DEWS. 

THE  breath  of  the  leaves  and  the  lyrics  of 

dawn 

Were  floating  away  in  the  air ; 
The  brooks  and  the  birds  were  all  singing 

aloud, 

The  violets  looking  a  prayer, 
With  eyes  that  upturned,  so  tearful  and 

true, 

Like  Mary's  of  old,  when  forgiven, 
Had  caught  the  reflection  and  mirrored  it 

there, 

As  bright  and  as  melting  as  heaven. 
The    silvery    mist    of     the    red    robin's 

song, 

Slow  swung  in  the  wind-wavered  nest ; 
The  billows  that  swell  from  the  forests  of 

June, 

Almost  to  the  blue  of  the  blest ; 
The  bells,"  that  are  rung  by  the  breath 

of  the  breeze, 
And    "toll    their    perfume"    as    they 

swing ; 
The  brooks  that  are  trolling  a  tune  of  their 

own, 

And  dance  to  whatever  they  sing ; 
The  groan  of  the  wretched,  the  laugh  of 

the  glad, 

Are  blent  with  the  breath  of  a  prayer ; 
The   sigh   of  the   dying,  the  whisper  of 

love, 

A  vow  that  was  broken,  are  there ! 
There   dimly   they   float,   'mid   the   ripe, 

golden  hours, 

Along  the  bright  trellis  of  air ; 
The  smothered  good-by,  and  the  whisper 

of  love, 

The  ban  and  the  blessing,  are  there! 
Cool   fingers   are    weaving    the   curtains 

again, 

Whose  woofing  is  netted  with  stars ; 
The  tremulous  woods  on  the  verge  of  the 

world, 
Just  bending  beneath  the  blue  spars, 


1840-50.] 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR. 


419 


Are  valanced    with  crimson,  and   netted 

with  gold. 

Where  now  are  the  vesper  and  vow — 
Those  spirit-like  breathings  of  sadness  and 

song, 

That  brought  not  a  cloud  o'er  the  brow, 
Bedimmed  not  a  beam  of  the  bright  sum 
mer  morn  ? 

Not  wafted  away,  for  the  aspen  is  still ; 
Not  fled  on  the  wings  of  the  hours ; 

Not  hiding  the  heaven — lo!  the  stars  in 

the  clear ; 

Not  perished,  but  here  on  the  flowers — 
Those  smiles   of   Divinity  lighting  the 

world, 
Whose  breath  is  forever  a  prayer  ; 

Who  blush  without  sinning,  and  blanch 

without  fear; 
Oh !  where  should  they  be,  if  not  there  ? 


SHALL  I  KNOW  HER  AGAIN  ? 

OH,  have  you  not  seen,  on  some  morning 

in  June, 
When  the  flowers  were  in  tears,  and  the 

forests  in  tune, 
When  the  billows  of  dawn  broke  bright  on 

the  air, 
On  the  breast  of  the  brightest  some  star 

clinging  there  ? 

Some  sentinel  star,  not  ready  to  set — 
Forgetting  to  wane,  and  watching  there 

yet? — 
How  you  gazed  on  that  vision  of  beauty 

awhile ; 
How  it  wavered  till  won  by  the  light  of 

God's  smile ; 
How  it  passed  through  the  portals  of  pearl 

like  a  bride ; 

How  it  paled  as  it  passed,  and  the  morn 
ing  star  died ; 


The  sky  was  all  blushes,  the  earth  was  all 

bliss ; 
And  the  prayer  of  your  heart,  "  Be  my 

ending  like  this." 
So  my  beautiful  May  passed  away  from 

life's  even  ; 
So   the  blush  of  her  being  was  blended 

with  heaven ; 
So  the  bird  of  my  bosom  fluttered  up  to 

the  dawn — 
A  window   was    open — my   darling   was 

gone ! — 
A  truant  from  time,  from  tears,  and  from 

sin, 
For  the  angel  on  watch  took  the  wanderer 

in! 
But  when  I  shall  hear  the  new  song  that 

she  sings, 
I  shall  know  her  again,  notwithstanding 

her  wings, 
By  those  eyes  full  of  heaven,  by  the  light 

on  her  hair, 
And  the  smile  she  wore  here,  she  'will 

surely  wear  there ! 


GOD  BLESS  OUR  STARS. 

"  GOD  bless  our  Stars  for  ever ! " 

Thus  the  Angels  sang  sublime, 
When  round  God's  forges  fluttered  fast, 

The  sparks  of  starry  Time ! 
When  they  fanned  them  with  their  pinions, 

Till  they  kindled  into  day, 
And  revealed  Creation's  bosom, 

Where  the  infant  Eden  lay. 

u  God  bless  our  stars  for  ever  !  " 

Thus  they  sang — the  seers  of  old, 
When  they  beckoned  to  the  Morning, 

Through  the  Future's  misty  fold, 
When  they  waved  the  wand  of  wonder — 

When  they  breathed  the  magic  word, 
And  the  pulses'  golden  glimmer, 

Showed  the  waking  granite  heard. 


420 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR. 


[1840-50. 


"  God  bless  our  stars  for  ever ! " 

'Tis  the  burden  of  the  song, 
Where  the  sail  through  hollow  midnight 

Is  flickering  along ; 
When  a  ribbon  of  blue  Heaven 

Is  a-gleaming  through  the  clouds, 
With  a  star  or  two  upon  it, 

For  the  sailor  in  the  shrouds ! 

"  God  bless  our  stars  for  ever ! " 

It  is  Liberty's  refrain, 
From  the  snows  of  wild  Nevada 

To  the  sounding  woods  of  Maine ; 
Where  the  green  Multnomah  wanders, 

Where  the  Alabama  rests, 
Where  the  thunder  shakes  his  turban 

Over  Alleghany's  crests; 

Where  the  mountains  of  New  England 

Mock  Atlantic's  stormy  main, 
Where  God's  palm  imprints  the  Prairie 

With  the  type  of  Heaven  again — 
Where  the  mirrored  morn  is  dawning, 

Link  to  link,  our  Lakes  along, 
And  Sacramento's  Golden  Gate 

Swinging  open  to  the  song — 

There  and  there !  "  Our  stars  for  ever !" 

How  it  echoes  !     How  it  thrills ! 
Blot  that  banner  ?     Wrhy,  they  bore  it 

When  no  sunset  bathed  the  hills. 
Now  over  Bunker  see  it  billow, 

Now  at  Bennington  it  waves, 
Ticonderoga  swells  beneath, 

And  Saratoga's  graves ! 

Oh  !  long  ago  at  Lexington, 
And  above  those  minute-men, 

The  "Old  Thirteen"  were  blazing  bright- 
There  were  only  thirteen  then ! 

God's  own  stars  are  gleaming  through  it- 
Stars  not  woven  in  its  thread ; 


Unfurl  it,  and  that  flag  will  glitter 
With  the  Heaven  overhead. 

Oh !  it  waved  above  the  Pilgrims, 

On  the  pinions  of  the  prayer ; 
Oh  !  it  billowed  o'er  the  battle, 

On  the  surges  of  the  air ; 
Oh !  the  stars  have  risen  in  it, 

Till  the  Eagle  waits  the  Sun, 
And  Freedom  from  her  mountain  watch 

Has  counted  "  Thirty -one." 

When  the  weary  Years  are  halting, 

In  the  mighty  march  of  Time, 
And  no  New  ones  throng  the  threshold 

Of  its  corridors  sublime  ; 
When  the  clarion  call,  "  Close  up  ! " 

Rings  along  the  line  no  more, 
Then  adieu,  thou  blessed  Banner, 

Then  adieu,  and  not  before ! 


THE  WORLD'S  EMBODIED  THOUGHT. 

Lo  !  there,  the  breathing  thought, 

The  poets  sang  of  old, 
And  there  the  burning  word, 

No  tongue  had  fully  told, 
Until  the  magic  hand, 

The  bold  conception  wrought, 
In  iron  and  in  fire  it  stands — 

The  world's  embodied  Thought. 

Lo !  in  the  panting  thunders, 

Hear  the  echo  of  the  Age! 
Lo !  in  the  globe's  broad  breast,  behold 

The  poet's  noblest  page ! 
For  in  the  brace  of  iron  bars, 

That  weld  two  worlds  in  one, 
The  couplet  of  a  nobler  lay 

Than  bards  have  e'er  begun ! 


AUSTIN   T.  EARLE. 


AUSTIN  T.  EARLE  was  born  in  Nashville,  Tennessee,  fifteenth  June,  1821.  His 
father  dying  when  he  was  about  four  years  old,  his  mother  returned  to  her  native  city, 
Baltimore,  Maryland,  and  after  residing  there  a  short  time,  removed  to  Jefferson  coun 
ty,  Ohio.  There  Mr.  Earle  remained  until  his  seventeenth  year.  His  educational  ad 
vantages  were  small,  attending  school  in  the  log  school-house  in  the  neighborhood,  in 
all  about  one  year.  He  subsequently  passed  two  or  three  years  in  steamboating,  and 
in  the  larger  towns  on  the  Ohio  river. 

In  1841  he  settled  in  Cincinnati,  and  became  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  Cin 
cinnati  newspapers.  In  the  autumn  of  1843,  in  connection  with  Benjamin  St.  James 
Fry,  he  engaged  in  the  publication  of  the  Western  Rambler,  a  weekly  literary  maga 
zine,  which  soon  failed  from  a  lack  of  capital  and  experience. 

In  1846  Mr.  Earle  went  to  Mexico  as  a  private  in  the  "First  Rifles"  of  the  first 
Regiment,  Ohio  Volunteers.  He  found  time  during  his  soldier  life  to  frequently  con 
tribute  poetical  and  prose  articles  to  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Times.  Since  his  return 
he  has  resided  principally  in  Cincinnati,  but  more  lately  in  Newport,  Kentucky. 

Mr.  Earle's  poetry  is  principally  lyrical,  and  marked  by  ease  of  versification  and 
much  feeling.  He  is  also  gifted  with  considerable  power  of  description ;  and  it  is  to 
be  regretted  that  he  has  not  cultivated  his  powers  with  more  perseverance.  The  cir 
cumstances  of  his  life,  combined  with  a  melancholic  temperament,  have  contributed  to 
give  a  gloomy  cast  to  much  of  his  writing.  He  has  never  collected  his  poems  in  a 
volume,  and  now  contributes  but  rarely  to  the  literary  journals. 


THIS  WINTER  NIGHT,  'TIS  DREARY. 

A  TIME  I  do  remember  well, 

When  all  the  earth  was  covered  o'er 
With  snow  that  fast  and  thickly  fell ; 

And  moaning  winds  were  at  the  door. 
My  father  to  the  mill  had  gone, 

My  mother  with  her  toil  was  weary, 
Whilst  sister  Sue  did  nothing  do, 
But  look  and  listen,  sigh  and  yawn, 

"  This  winter  night,  ah  me !  'tis  dreary." 


The  hickory  logs  were  all  ablaze, 
That  lay  within  the  chimney  jams, 


And  threw  aloft  the  ruddy  rays, 

Where  to  the  rafters  hung  the  hams  ; 

And  on  the  polished  puncheon  floor, 
A  warmth  and  light  we  christen  cheery, 

Yet  sister  Sue  did  nothing  do, 

But  sigh  and  yawn,  as  oft  before, 

"  This  winter  night,  ah  me !  'tis  dreary." 

The  youngsters  all  had  gone  to  bed, 

And  I  sat  gazing  in  the  fire, 
Imagining  in  the  embers  red, 

A  village  with  its  church  and  spire. 
Old  Lion  to  the  hearth  had  drawn, 

His  limbs,  so  feeble,  worn  and  weary, 


(421) 


AUSTIN    T.    EARLE. 


[1840-50. 


Yet  sister  Sue  did  nothing  do, 
But  look  and  listen,  sigh  and  yawn, 

"This  winter  night,  ah  me!  'tis  dreary." 

Young  Watch  who  in  his  kennel  kept, 

Commenced  with  all  his  might  to  bark — 
Then  on  the  porch  we  heard  a  step — 

Then  sister  to  me  whispered — "  Hark" — 
Then  heard  a  knocking  at  the  door — 

Then  bade  come  in — and  came  young 

Leary, 

And  sister  Sue  had  much  to  do, 
And  never  thought,  I  ween,  once  more, 

"  This  winter  night,  ah  me !  'tis  dreary." 


A  MAY  SONG. 

THOUGH   darksome    clouds    and    chillin 
winds, 

Thou  bringest  often  with  thee,  May, 
No  month  more  welcome  from  me  finds, 

Or  fills  my  heart  with  thoughts  more  gay ; 
For  twin  thou  art  with  balmy  June, 

The  merriest  month  of  all  the  year, 
When  nature's  harps  are  all  atune, 

And  blossoms  every  where  appear. 

And  dear  thou  art,  sweet  month,  to  me, 

As  emblem  of  my  lovely  May, 
Whose  smiles,  as  thine,  can  sunny  be, 

Or  frowns  as  chilling  any  day  ; 
For  twin  to  me,  as  thou  to  June, 

Is  she,  the  fairest  damsel  here ; 
Though  maidens  throng  each  gay  saloon, 

Who  matchless  in  their  bloom  appear. 

All  changeful  wiles  and  willful  airs, 

That  thou  canst  on  a  sudden  take, 
My  Mary  with  thee  frequent  shares, 

Yet  ne'er  my  constancy  can  shake ; 
For  well  I  know  that,  night  or  noon, 

Her  love  is  mine  from  year  to  year, 
And  Heaven  kind,  can  grant  no  boon 

Than  her  sweet  love,  to  me  more  dear, 


Then  welcome,  welcome  changeling  May, 
No  month  more  welcome  from  me  finds, 

Though  thou  shouldst  coquette  many  a  day 
With  darksome  clouds  and  chilling  winds : 
or  twin  thou  art  to  balmy  June, 
The  poet  month  of  all  the  year, 

When  nature's  harps  are  all  atune, 
And  blossoms  every  where  appear. 


THE  FAIR  PENITENT. 

So  young,  so  sweet,  so  meek  and  fair, 
She  seemed  to  be  almost  divine ; 

As  lowly  then,  she  knelt  her  there, 
Beside  Saint  Mary's  ruin'd  shrine ; 

And  offered  up  a  sincere  prayer, 

From  heart  as  pure,  fair  maid,  as  thine. 

No  passion  thrilled  her  gentle  breast, 
For  all  was  fair  and  calm  within; 

And  yet  she  lowly  there  confess'd, 

What  seemed  to  her  young  mind  a  sin  ; 

For  oft  of  late  she  had  transgress'd, 
In  dreaming  of  young  Marmadin. 


TO  MY  BROTHER  MAN. 

BROTHER,  tell  me  what  art  thou, 
Idle,  careless,  onward  straying, 
Still  thy  trust  of  time  betraying, 

Thoughtless  when,  or  where,  or  how? 

Aimless  as  the  weeds  at  sea, 
Drifting  as  the  wind  is  blowing, 
Drifting  as  the  tide  is  flowing, 

Heedless  to  eternity? 

Pause  then,  brother,  while  you  may ; 
While  thy  heart  with  joy  is  beating, 
While  thy  friends  are  kindly  greeting, 

Calmly  then  the  world  survey. 


1840-50.] 


AUSTIN    T.    EARLE. 


423 


While  the  sky  above  is  blue, 
Ere  thy  chain  of  life  is  riven, 
Think  if  God  to  thee  hath  given 

Nothing  for  thy  hands  to  do. 


WARM  HEARTS  HAD  WE. 

THE  autumn  winds  were  damp  and  cold, 

And  dark  the  clouds  that  swept  along, 
As  from  the  fields  the  grains  of  gold 

We  gathered  with  the  husker's  song. 
Our  hardy  forms,  though  thinly  clad, 

Scarce  felt  the  winds  that  swept  us  by ; 
For  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 

We  heaped  the  ears  of  yellow  corn, 

More  worth  than  bars  of  gold  to  view  ; 
The  crispy  covering  from  it  torn, 

The  noblest  grain  that  ever  grew  ; 
Nor  heeded  we,  though  thinly  clad, 

The  chilly  winds  that  swept  us  by  ; 
For  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 

We  merry  sang  as  meadow  larks 

Who  bathe  in  dew,  in  summer  morn, 
When  ruddy  Sol  with  crimson  marks 

The  eastern  sky,  whence  day  is  born ; 
Nor  heeded  we,  though  thinly  clad, 

The  chilly  winds  that  swept  us  by ; 
For  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 

The  robin  hungry  to  us  came, 

And,  feeding,  listened  to  our  song, 
Then  hung  his  head  in  very  shame — 

Less  joyous  notes  to  him  belong, 
For  heedless  we,  though  thinly  clad, 

Of  autumn  winds  that  swept  us  by  : 
Ah !  she  a  child,  and  I  a  lad — 

Warm  hearts  had  we,  my  Kate  and  I. 


PLOW  SONG. 

MY  soil  is  good,  for  late  the  wood 

In  tall,  green  forests  o'er  it  grew, 
With  boughs  so  long,  and  boughs  so  strong ! 

The  winds  in  vain  against  them  blew. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

My  grain  will  grow,  I  well  do  know, 

Until  the  coming  harvest  time, 
When  from  the  field,  we  seek  the  yield, 

Matured  by  this  our  genial  clime. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

I  have  no  care,  my  heart  to  wear, 

But  like  the  warbling  bird  of  spring, 
With  coat  that's  blue,  and  heart  that's  true, 

I'll  merry  toil  and  merry  sing. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

My  heart  is  free,  and  thus  shall  be 

A  fount  of  joyous,  gushing  song, 
Till  won,  perchance,  by  maiden's  glance, 

And  that,  ah  me  !  may  not  be  long. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 

[  know  a  maid,  with  brows  that  shade, 

Bright  eyes  of  deepest  midnight  black, 
The  nerve  to  do,  the  nerve  to  woo, 

Is  all  to  win  her,  that  I  lack. 
To  speed  my  plow,  I'll  haste  me  now, 

And  turn  the  rich,  red  clover  down, 
That  bathed  with  dew,  the  summer  through, 

Hath  fed  the  bees  with  honey  brown. 


JONATHAN   W.   GORDON. 


JONATHAN  W.  GORDON  was  born  August  thirteenth,  1820.  His  father,  William 
Gordon,  was  an  Irish  laborer,  who  emigrated  to  the  United  States  in  1790,  and  settled 
in  Washington  county,  Pennsylvania,  where,  August  eighteenth,  1795,  he  married 
Sarah  Walton,  a  native  of  Virginia,  by  whom  he  had  fourteen  children,  of  which  the 
subject  of  this  notice  is  the  thirteenth.  The  father  migrated  westward  with  his  fami 
ly  in  the  spring  of  1835,  and  settled  in  Ripley  county,  Indiana,  where  he  resided 
until  the  time  of  his  death,  January  twentieth,  1841.  His  wife  survived  him,  until 
May  twenty-ninth,  1857,  when  she  died  at  the  residence  of  her  youngest  daughter. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  subject  of  this  sketch  married  Miss  Catherine  J.  Overturf, 
April  third,  1843 ;  entered  upon  the  practice  of  the  law,  February  twenty-seventh,  1844; 
went  to  Mexico  June  ninth,  1846,  as  a  volunteer  in  the  third  Regiment  of  Indiana 
Volunteers ;  lost  his  health,  and  upon  his  return  studied  medicine,  on  account  of  hem 
orrhage  from  the  lungs;  received  the  degree  of  M.D.,  1851 ;  removed  to  Indianap 
olis,  and  resumed  the  practice  of  the  law  in  May,  1852.  He  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Representatives  by  the  people  of  Marion  county,  in  1856,  and  again 
in  1858;  and,  during  the  latter  term,  was  twice  chosen  Speaker. 


A  SONG  FOR  NEW -YEARS. 


AGAIN  I  hail  the  blessed  morn 
That  brings  to  all  another  year: 
A  smile  for  some,  for  some  a  tear, 

But  hope  for  all  to-day  is  born. 

And  joy — the  quenchless  light  of  mind — 
That  forward  springs,  disdaining  rest, 
And  seeks,  beyond  earth's  good,  the  best, 

The  True— the  Beautiful— to  find. 

Wherever  man  is  found,  is  found 
The  joy  of  hope — the  spirit's  guide 
Amid  the  wrecks  of  time  and  tide — 

His  pilot  o'er  life's  stormy  sound. 

And  when  the  dreams  of  earth  are  gone, 
And  shadows  cloud  his  mortal  eye ; 


This  hope  shall  catch  new  light,  and  high 
On  Godward  wing  still  bear  him  on. 

The  soul's  ideal:— "Better  still!" 

With  conscious  force  that  goal  to  win, 
Shall  free  it  yet  from  stain  of  sin 

And  all  that  here  hath  worked  it  ill. 

In  this,  within  the  soul  is  found 
The  proof  that  it  shall  never  die; 
'Tis  brother  of  eternity — 

To  an  eternal  progress  bound; 

For  countless  ages  cannot  grant 
A  good  that  can  no  better  know ; 
Nor  e'en  the  best  its  wish  o'erflow, 

And  sate,  at  once,  its  sateless  want. 


This  want  of  soul  for  fields  untrod, 
This  earnest  search  for  clearer  light, 


(424) 


1840-50.] 


JONATHAN    W.    GORDON. 


425 


Still  lifts  it  from  a  world  of  night, 
Forever  nearer  to  its  God. 

And  thus  the  soul  with  God  above, 
And  fired  with  hopes  that  constant  ten 
To  higher  heights,  as  sparks  ascend, 

Sublimely  seeks  the  heights  of  love. 

Here  is  the  all  in  all — the  sum 

Of  finite  life,  thought,  hope  and  joy; 
All  else  we  know  is  but  alloy, 

And  bears  no  hope  for  years  to  come. 

This  soul  of  soul — essential  bliss! — 
Howe'er  earth's  dross  may  round  it  cling 
Will  be  to  each  an  angel's  wing 

To  waft  him  o'er  death's  grim  abyss. 

Then,  hail  bright  morn!   my  song  shal 

know 

No  accidental  jar;  but  fixed 
In  this  high  creed,  shall  flow  unmixed 

With  discords — born  of  human  woe. 

II. 

Another  year  whose  dawn  I  sung 

A  year  ago  to-day,  is  dead ; 

"At  night's  pale  noon"  his  spirit  fled — 
By  mournful  winds  his  knell  was  rung. 

Come  with  me  to  the  grave — look  down 
Upon  the  coffin — it  contains 
A  fraction  of  our  own  remains — 

A  part  of  life  we  called  our  own. 

It  was  our  own  a  year  ago, 

But  now  'tis  in  the  grave — 'tis  dead; 

A  part  of  us — of  heart  and  head — 
A  year  of  earthly  bliss  and  woe. 

And  who  can  tell  how  large  a  part 
Within  that  year  himself  hath  died? 
'Tis  quite  enough — bear  witness  pride — 

A  single  throb  may  still  the  heart. 

The  grief  is  egotistical  that  gives 
Its  tears  to  the  departed  year: 


'Tis  for  our  buried  selves  the  tear 
Is  shed — the  selfish  sorrow  lives. 

The  coffin-lid  on  which  we  gaze, 

Is  all  too  thin  to  hide  ourself  beneath: 
And    throb    by    throb,    and    breath    by 
breath, 

We  die  each  moment  of  our  days. 

'Tis  well  in  our  own  fun'ral  train 

To  walk ;  nor  dream  the  grave  so  near — 
Nor  deem  each  spark  of  pleasure  here, 

A  severed  fragment  of  life's  chain. 

But  is  it  not?     The  wasting  pile 

On  which  the  laughing  flame  doth  feed, 
And    mock  at  gloom   the   while,  doth 
speed 

To  dust  beneath  the  fiery  smile. 

So  speeds  to  dust  the  templed  dome 
From  which  the  soul's  immortal  flame 
Smiles   down   on  death;   thence,  as   it 
came, 

Leaps  up  to  its  immortal  home. 

Let  thanks  to  time  and  death  be  given, 
For  those  whose  going  left  us  sorrow; 
We'll  join  them  on  life's  bright  to-mor 
row, 

Within  the  sapphire  walls  of  heaven. 

in. 

e  drift  upon  a  shoreless  sea, 
On  which  to-day  is  but  a  wave: 
Behind  us  darkly  yawns  the  grave — 
Before,  shines  immortality. 

We  do  not  die,  as  death  doth  seem, 
In  those  we  love;  but  upward  rise 
To  scenes  unseen  by  earthward  eyes; 

A.nd  brighter  than  the  poet's  dream. 

Vhy  reck  we  then  how  years  depart, 
Since  past  and  future  both  are  ours; 
And  hope  and  mem'ry  twine  their  flow'rs 

n  garlands  grateful  to  the  heart? 


426 


JONATHAN    W.    GORDON. 


[1810-50. 


IV. 

Our  life  is  three-fold — three  combine 
Ere  we  can  leave  the  sense's  night, 
And  scale  the  reason's  cloudless  height, 

Where  truth's  unfading  treasures  shine: 

The  Past,  the  Future,  and  the  tie — 
Self-conscious  thought — that  makes  them 

one, 
Make  man,  whose  flight  of  life,  begun, 

Sweeps  on  forever,  bright  and  high. 

And  thus,  while  on  the  topmost  wave 
Of  time  we  sail  to-day,  I  greet 
Each  with  a  song — an  echo  meet, 

Of  voices  now  beyond  the  grave. 


PALE  STAR. 

PALE  star,  that  shone  upon  my  youth, 

With  calm  and  steady  ray, 
Thou  art  the  only  friend  whose  truth 

Has  never  known  decay. 

And  oft  as  night  returns  I  gaze 

In  rapture  up  to  thee, 
And  deem  thy  gentle  beaming  rays 

Intended  but  for  me. 

For  oft  I've  watched  thy  holy  light 

In  childhood's  sinless  hour ; 
And  in  the  still  deep  hush  of  night 

Have  thrilled  beneath  its  power. 

And  when  the  care-worn  world  hath  slept, 

I've  stole  from  man's  abode 
And  been  with  thee,  and  vigil  kept, 

Near  the  bright  throne  of  God. 

And  when  alone  by  the  wild  stream 

That  knew  my  infant  feet, 
I've  thought  of  thee,  and  dreamed  a  dream 

Of  love — pure,  sinless,  sweet. 


How  sad  that  wild  stream  murmur'd  on 
When  day  had  banished  thee: 

All  nature  then  was  blank,  and  dawn 
And  day  a  curse  to  me. 

And  when  at  last  the  sun  went  down, 
I've  watched  his  shining  track 

A  moment  with  a  childish  frown, 
Then  wished  he'd  ne'er  come  back. 

And,  then,  with  what  deep  joy  I've  turned, 

To  catch  thy  peerless  beam, 
As  on  the  azure  sky  it  burned 

Above  my  heart's  wild  stream! 

Dear  stream  of  childhood's  happy  home, 

To  my  fond  soul  'twas  given, 
To  hear  thy  matchless  music  come, 

In  echoes  back  from  heaven. 

But  long  ago  those  echoes  died 
Within  my  heart,  sweet  stream, 

And  sunk  beneath  life's  restless  tide ; 
E'en  thou  art  but  a  dream. 

But  still,  pale  star,  thy  constant  ray 
Has  been  my  steadfast  friend; 

And  lingers  still  o'er  life's  wild  way, 
From  dangers  to  forefend. 

And  thou  wilt  shine  upon  the  spot 

Where  I  shall  lay  my  head 
In  death — forgetful — as  forgot — 

Among  the  nameless  dead. 


IN  CROWDS,  AND  YET  SADLY  ALONE. 

IN  crowds,  and  yet  sadly  alone, 

I  gaze  on  the  blue  sky  at  even 
And  list  to  the  mellowest  tone 

That  ever  fell  softly  from  heaven : 
The  tone  of  the  harp  of  the  air, 
Breathing  warmly  and  low,  as  an  angel  at 
prayer, 


]  840-50.] 


JONATHAN    W.    GORDON. 


427 


Till  it  fills  my  wild  heart  with  a  though 

of  the  past — 

Too  bright,  in  its  dreamlight  of  beauty,  to 
last. 

But  give  me,  0  give  me,  the  evening  air 

With  its  voice  of  love,  and  its  spirit  of 
prayer, 

To  blend  with  the  hum  of  the  murmur 
ing  stream, 

Whose  waters  glide  on,  like  a  beautifu 
dream. 

Alone,  yet  how  thrillingly  near 

To  all  I  have  loved,  now  departed; 
To  her  who  ne'er  spake  but  to  cheer, 

And   bless    with   her  love  the  lone- 
hearted: 
And  now  whilst  I  gaze  on  the  sky, 

And  the  stars  in  their  brightness  are 

shining  out  there, 

I  remember  how  often  my  gentle  one's  eye 

Used   to   gaze   on    those   stars,  as  she 

whispered  her  prayer. 
Her  eye !  'twas  the  light  and  the  quiet 

of  my  life — 
Unclouded  by  passion  and  warning  from 

strife, 

No  star  ever  shone  in  its  beauty  above, 
Half  as    bright  as   her  eye — the   pure 

star  of  my  love. 


TO  VIOLA  IN  HEAVEN. 

I  AM  alone : 

To  me  the  world  hath  lost  its  brow  of 
gladness, 

And  dewy  dawn, 
And  day  and  night  have  robed  themselves 

in  sadness, 

And  life  hath  naught  for  me  but  agony  and 
madness — 

Since  thou  art  dead. 


Thy  soul  hath  fled 

To  its  bright  sphere  afar  beyond  death's 
river; 

Whilst  I  am  led, 

In  gloom  and  grief  along  its  shore  forever; 
And   call  thy  name,  but  hear  thy  gentle 
voice — 0  never ! 

Since  thou  art  dead. 

Life's  dream  is  o'er — 
Its  spell  upon  the  heart's  deep  fountain 
broken 

Forevermore : 
But,  in  each  word,  thy  lute-like  voice  hath 

spoken, 

Thou  still  hast  left  me  many  a  treasured 
token, 

In  mem'ry's  store. 

All  warm  and  bright 
Thy  soul  on  mine,  in  each  seems  fondly 
glowing 

In  love's  own  light, 
And  on  the  dim  drear  gloom  of  grief  be 
stowing 

A  constant  beam — pure  as  the  stainless 
starlight  flowing 

From  heaven  to-night. 

O  !  while  the  light 
Of    thy    last   smile    upon   my    soul    doth 
quiver, 

As  pure  and  bright 
As  day's  last  smile  upon  the  blushing  river, 
Friend  of  my  soul,  I  know  thou  art  not 
gone  forever — 

'Tis  only  night. 

The  morn  will  ri*e  ; 
And  for  this  night  an  endless  day  be  given, 

When  thy  dear  eyes, 
Whose   sad   eclipse   sheds   darkness   o'er 

life's  even, 

Will  shine  for  me,  in  some  bright  love-lit 
isle  of  heaven 

Beyond  the  skies. 


D.  BETHUNE  DUFFIELD. 


D.  BETHUNE  DUFFIELD,  son  of  Rev.  George  Duffield,  D.D.,  and  Isabella  Gra 
ham  Duffield,  was  born  in  Carlisle,  Cumberland  county,  Pennsylvania,  in  1821,  where 
he  resided  with  his  parents  until  their  removal  to  Philadelphia.  He  remained  at 
school  in  Philadelphia  until  1836,  when  he  entered  Yale  College.  In  1842  he  gradu 
ated  at  the  Yale  Law  School,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Detroit,  Michigan,  in 
1843.  In  that  city  he  has  since  continued  in  active  practice.  During  the  greater 
part  of  the  last  twelve  years  he  has  been  prominently  engaged  on  behalf  of  the  free 
schools  of  Detroit,  and  has  latterly  served  as  the  President  of  the  Board  of  Educa 
tion  for  that  city.  In  addition  to  the  labor  of  a  large  practice  he  is  frequently  called 
upon  as  a  lecturer  and  writer,  and  as  such,  maintains  an  enviable  rank  among  the 
young  men  of  his  State. 

His  character  as  a  man  of  integrity  and  as  a  Christian  gentleman,  is  without  re 
proach,  and  in  all  the  various  relations  of  life  he  seeks  the  honest  discharge  of  such 
duties  as  are  devolved  on  him  by  Providence. 

His  poems  are  evidently  more  the  result  of  spontaneous  expression  than  elaborate 
labor,  but  although  rapidly  prepared,  evince  a  degree  of  poetical  talent  which  prom 
ises  prominence  among  the  writers  of  the  North-west,  if  not  of  a  still  wider  sphere. 


THE  MAID  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

AT  Chamouni  I  kissed  a  maid, 

A  shepherdess  was  she, 
And  not  a  single  word  she  said, 
But  high  she  tossed  her  graceful  head, 

And  sternly  frowned  on  me. 

That  she  was  pure,  though  low  in  rank, 

No  one  could  fail  to  see, 
Pure  as  the  wreath  of  old  Mont  Blanc, 
Whose  shadow,  when  the  sun  has  sank, 

Enshrouds  all  Chamouni. 

I  told  her,  I  had  longed  to  taste 
The  dews  of  Chamouni, 


And  the  first  flower  that  I  had  faced, 
Whose  petal  lips  those  dews  had  graced, 
Was  she,  and  only  she. 

Then  spake  the  maid  with  scornful  air, 

"  You  live  beyond  the  sea, 
But  know  this  rule  of  every  where, 
'  The  thorns  grow  where  the  roses  are/ 

Holds  good  in  Chamouni." 

'Twas  all  she  said,  then  waved  her  hand 

And  parted  company — 
Yet  still,  I  could  not  help  but  stand 
And  watch  her  and  her  tinkling  band, 
Till     shadows     from    Mont     Blanc    had 

spanned 

The  vale  of  Chamouni. 
(428) 


1840-50.] 


D.    BETHUNE    DUFFIELD. 


429 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

IN  darkness  and  in  tears, 
The  night  of  sorrow  sped, 

As  I,  with  lacerated  heart 
Kept  vigil  with  the  dead ; 

And  o'er  my  baby's  pallid  brow 
The  scented  waters  shed. 

The  morning  broke,  but  ah ! 

It  brought  no  light  to  me, 
For  ere  that  solemn  day  should  pass, 

My  child  would  hidden  be 
Beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  hand, 

Sealed  for  eternity. 

In  wretched  mood  I  turned 
And  threw  the  casement  wide, 

When  lo  !  in  all  its  pearly  bloom, 
Its  soft  and  tender  pride, 

The  Morning-glory  reared  its  head, 
And  blessed  me  as  I  sighed. 

From  out  its  smiling  eyes 

Flowed  words  of  sweetest  tone, 

And  whispered  that  in  Paradise 
With  glory  like  its  own. 

My  child  that  morning  bloomed 
Above  Christ's  holy  throne — 

And  so  this  flower  to  me  became 

The  precious  emblem  of  its  name. 


FAREWELL : 

AN   ANTE-NUPTIAL   LOVE   SONG. 

FAREWELL,  Mary,  for  a  season, 
Though  that  season  brief  may  be, 

Yet  the  word  must  still  be  uttered, 
Farewell,  Mary,  then  to  thee. 

Farewell,  till  Spring's  softest  breezes 
Sweep  around  your  open  door, 

Till  the  garments  of  old  Winter 
On  the  hills  are  seen  no  more. 


Farewell  till  the  maple's  blossom 
Dances  on  the  swaying  bough, 

And  the  blue-bird's  joyous  love-song 
Echoes  all  your  garden  through. 

Farewell,  till  the  fragrant  meadow 
Hails  the  bright  and  jocund  May, 

And  the  lark  mounts  up  to  heaven, 
Pouring  forth  his  bridal  lay. 

Farewell,  till  all  nature  wakens 
And  each  brake  and  shady  grove, 

Whispers  with  its  thousand  voices 
All  the  murmurings  of  love. 

Then,  dear  Mary,  I  shall  join  them, 
And  once  more  upon  your  breast, 

Sing  in  words  of  heart-rejoicing, 

What  the  birds  sing  round  their  nest. 


EARTH'S  MOTHER-LOVE. 

HE  who  once  has  known  a  mother, 
Kind  and  loving  through  his  youth, 

Nevermore  can  love  another 

With  an  equal  strength  and  truth. 

Mother !  'tis  a  word  that  opened 
Lips  divine  in  Bethlehem's  stall, 

And  that  word  has  ever  tokened 
Christ's  own  love  to  those  that  fall. 

From  that  life  of  sad  dejection 
All  our  Lord  could  bear  above, 

Was  the  pure  soul-fed  affection 
Of  his  virgin  mother's  love. 

Well  he  knew  her  deep  devotion, 
To  the  babe  that  graced  her  knee, 

Well  recalls  her  wild  emotion, 
Witnessed  at  the  fatal  tree. 

And  from  those  enthroned  in  glory 
As  the  circling  ages  move, 


430 


D.   BETHUNE    DUFFIELD. 


[1840-50. 


He  will  still  respect  the  story 
Of  a  mother's  earthly  love. 

For  it  seems  man's  first  contrition, 
Prompting  to  the  heavenly  birth, 

Oft  matures  to  full  fruition, 

Thro'  the  mother's  prayers  on  earth. 

Then  let  earth  in  grateful  chorus 
Chant  the  mother-love  she's  known, 

Glad  that  God's  own  child  betbre  us 
Bore  its  fragrance  to  His  throne. 


THE  SOUNDING  SEA. 

A  MAIDEN  sat  on  the  rock-piled  beach, 

All  pensively,  all  pensively, 
And  hymned  her  fading  girlhood's  thoughts 

In  the  ears  of  the  sounding  sea, 
The  sounding  sea. 


rler  gentle  words  on  ocean's  ear 
Fell  silently,  all  silently — 

But  the  maiden  had  no  answer  back, 
Save  the  sobs  of  the  sounding  sea, 
The  sounding  sea ! 


My  life  is  breaking  from  youth's  spell 

Full  rapidly,  full  rapidly, 
And  soon  my  bark  must  launch  and  sail 

O'er  the  waves  of  this  sounding  sea, 
This  sounding  sea ! 


A  SABBATH  SUNSET  PRAYER. 

Tis  Sabbath  eve — the  sun  in  slow  decline 
Behind  the  clouds  his  banner  bright  has 

furled, 
And  lofty  trees  in  lengthening  shadows 

read 
Their  solemn  lesson  to  a  pensive  world. 

Above  the  clover-blossoms  of  the  field, 
Like  aged  men  who  with  their  children 
dwell, 

The  dandelions  with  their  silvery  heads 
Repeat  the  story  that  the  shadows  tell. 


A  sad-voiced  bird  from  out  the  maple's 

boughs, 

Full  gemmed  and  dripping  with  the  re 
cent  shower, 

Sends  forth  his   plaintive  note,  and  seems 
And  who  with  fearless  heart  will  come 

To  pilot  me,  to  pilot  me  ? 
Who  shield  me  from  that  tempest's  wrath 

Which  ofttimes  smites  the  sounding  sea,|The  neighing  steed  upon  the  distant  hill, 

Now  lifts   his  head,  and  waits  his  mas 
ter's  call, 
What  star  shall  shine  along  my  way  ? 

Who'll  answer  me?  who'll  answer  me? 
Wlint  harbor  shall  my  anchor  hold, 
If  safe  I  pass  this  sounding  sea  ? 


The  sounding  sea ! 


This  sounding  sea ! 


Frail  barks  have  carried  others  o'er, 
Then  why  not  me  ?  say,  why  not  me  ? 

Sure  there's  a  pilot  and  a  breeze 
To  bear  me  o'er  this  sounding  sea? 
This  sounding  sea ! 


A  lay  well  suited  to  the  tranquil  hour. 


While  from  the  meadow  and  the  tangled 

wood, 

The  lowing  cattle  seek  the  home-roofed 
stall. 


The  chirping  swallows  round  the  chimney 

top, 

In  airy  circling.*  drop  into  their  nest, 
And  'neath  the  night-bird's  soothing  lullaby 
Tired  nature  calmly  lays  her  head  to 
rest. 


1840-50.] 


D.    BETHUNE    DUFF1ELD. 


431 


Oh,  that  the  shadows  round  my  life's  decline, 
May  linger  long  before  the  night  shall 

come, 
And  Heaven's  mild  glory  down  that  valley 

shine, 

Through  which  my  weary  feet  must  lead 
me  home. 


ANNIVERSARY  ODE.* 

COME  ye,  whose  feet  old  Erie  kindly  laves, 
And  join  to  pour  an  anthem  o'er  her 

waves, 
This  day  to  her  broad  breast  she  calls  the 

free, 
And  bids  them  welcome  to  her  jubilee. 

Thou  stately  Queen  of  all  the  lordly  lakes 
Down  where  Niagara's  thundering  chorus 

breaks, 
Snatch   forth   a   strain   of    nature's    lofty 

praise 

To  swell  the  chant  thy  sister  cities  raise. 
Come,  thou  old  Erie,  worthy  of  thy  name, 
Bearing  the  trophy  of  thy  hero's  fame, — 
The  fragments  of  that  torn  and  shattered 

wreck 

With  battle's  footprints  still  upon  the  deck ; 
And  thou,  too,  ancient  "  City  of  the  Straits," 
Bring  forth  the  guns  that  once  assailed  thy 

gates. 
And  thou  fair  Forest   City,  gliding  from 

thy  grove, 
Come  like  the  swan  and  o'er  the  waters 

move. 

And  coy  Sandusky,  nestled  in  thy  bay, 
Where  lovers  dream  the  evening  hours  away, 
Come    with   Monroe    from    river    Rasin's 

shore 
And  proud  Toledo,  valiant  as  of  yore  ; 


*  Extracts  from  an  ode  read  at  a  celebration  at  Put-in- 
Bay,  on  the  forty-fifth  Anniversary  of  the  Battle  of  Lake 
Erie,  September  tenth,  1858. 


Come,  grave  Maumee,  for  years  full  wide 
ly  known, 
By  heroes,  and  a  fever  all  thine  own. 

*         *        *        *         *         *         *         * 

Let  all  our  cities  in  one  common  hymn 
Send  Perry's  praise  around  old  Erie's  brim, 
Perry  the  young,  Perry  the  bold  and  brave, 
The  Christian  hero  of  our  common  wave ; 
Let  all  the  bugles  their  best  music  pour, 
Let  all  the  cannon  in  glad  triumph  roar, 
And  let  their  echoes,  leaping  from  each 
shore, 

Still  chime  his  name, 

And  lofty  fame, 
Forever,  and  forever  more ! 
******* 

New  generations  here  this  day  we  see 
With  brilliant  pomp  and  gay  festivity, 
With  lute  and  tabret  and  the  vocal  chime, 
That  rings  far  down  the  avenues  of  time, 
With  brazen  trump  and  clanging  drum  and 

bell, 

In  soul-refreshing  strains  again  to  tell 
How  well, 
How  bravely  well, 

Great  Perry  stood 
When  shot  and  shell 
Around  him  fell, 
And  vexed  and  seethed  old  Erie's  peaceful 

flood, 
And  dyed  her  emerald  waves  with  valor's 

precious  blood. 
******* 

Then  let  us  send  the  towering  shaft  on  high, 
To  court  new  blessings  from  each  morning 

sky; 

To  teach  our  rising  youth  on  land  and  flood, 
That  liberty  is  worthy  of  their  blood ; 
And  on  its  tablet  write,  in  boldest  line, 
Those  words  that  round  this  lake  should 

ever  shine — 

That  modest  message  of  our  hero's  pen — 
Long  may  it  live  among  our  naval  men, 
Long  gleam  from  all  our  armed  forts  and 

towers — 
"  We've  met  the  enemy,  and  they  are  ours ! " 


WILLIAM   ASBURY   KENYON. 


THE  first  volume  of  poems  published  in  the  State  of  Illinois,  was  printed  at 
Chicago,  by  James  Campbell  and  Company,  in  the  month  of  January,  1845.  It  was 
a  small  duodecimo,  containing  two  hundred  and  eight  pages,  and  was  entitled  "  Miscel 
laneous  Poems,  to  which  are  added  writings  in  prose  on  various  subjects  by  William 
Asbury  Kenyon."  The  prose  writings  are  illustrative  chiefly  of  the  poems,  the  major 
part  of  which  were  evidently  suggested  by  prairie  scenes.  Several  of  them  pleasant 
ly  satirize  backwoods  customs,  but  with  more  "  truth  than  poetry."  The  author  was 
a  native  of  Hingham,  Massachusetts,  who  taught  school  in  Illinois,  and  who  traveled 
widely  in  the  Mississippi  Valley.  We  select  from  the  volume  two  poems  which  fairly 
represent  Mr.  Kenyon's  capacity  as  a  versifier. 


TO  THE  BALTIMORE  ORIOLE. 

GAY  little  Oriole,  bird  of  the  Spring, 
Welcome,  again,  with  your  glistening  wing ; 
Though  we  lamented  you,  all  winter  long, 
Quit  are  we  now,  in  your  sprightlier  song. 

There  is  your  pensile  cot,  just  as  it  hung, 
High  in  the  elm,  where  you  cheerily  sung, 
Just  as  it  hung,  of  yore,  when,   nestling 

there, 
You  and  your  little  ones  swung  in  the  air. 

While  you  were  far  away,  often  there  came 
l>la>ts  wildly  fierce;  but  your  cot  is  the 

same ; 

Say,  if  you  placed  it  there,  your  little  bill, 
Had  it  no  help,  save  intuitive  skill? 

How.  in  our  busy  mart  —  none  others  dare 
Venture  their  notes  on  its  turbulent  air, — 
How  can  you,  fearlessly,  carol  so  gay, 
Out  on  the  limb  stretching  over  the  way? 

Just  is  your  confidence;  sing,  and  be  free, 
Gayly  your  whisking  flight  mingles  with 

glee; 

Safely  I  say,  in  the  name  of  all  men, 
Beautiful  Oriole,  welcome  a^ain! 


CREATION. 

CREATION  is  a  poem,  wrote  by  Him 
Whose    genius    doth    so  far  surpass  our 

own 
That    wise     the     reader    who    is    early 

shown 
How  small  his  knowledge  and  his  sight 

how  dim. 
This   canto,   Earth,   will    ne'er  be   fully 

known, 
And     parts     innumerable,     each,     from 

each, 
Distinctly     fair,    lay     far     beyond     our 

reach. 

Here,  every  line  a  wonder  lives  alone, 
Widely  sublime,  or  nicely  beautiful ; 
With    oft    a    strain    of    more    absorbing 

tone, 
Heaven's    sweetest   consonance    pervades 

the  whole, 

The  vast,  the  perfect  whole,  whose  Au 
thor's  fame, 
The  glory  of  the  great  Creating  Soul, 
Should,  and  will,  ever  live,  with  hosts  to 

sing  his  name. 


(432) 


HORACE    S.    MINOR. 


HORACE  S.  MINOR  was  a  native  of  Tennessee.  I  believe  that  he  was  born  on  the 
seventeenth  of  June,  1822.  His  parents,  whose  names  I  do  not  remember  ever  to 
have  heard,  were  in  humble  circumstances,  and  his  opportunities  for  education  were 
very  limited.  I  became  acquainted  with  him  in  Cincinnati  about  1845.  He  was 
then,  or  soon  after,  employed  in  making  and  painting  Venetian  window-blinds.  He 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  daily  papers  of  Cincinnati,  and  subsequently  en 
gaged  in  contributing  to  and  editing  a  small  weekly  called  The  Shooting  Star.  He 
wrote  over  and  under  various  pseudonyms  for  the  Star,  the  Morning  Message,  the 
Daily  Nonpareil,  and  other  papers.  In  the  summer  of  1846  he  went  to  Illinois,  and 
married  Hortensia  Rockwell.  Returning,  he  resided  for  several  years  on  Walnut 
Hills,  near  Lane  Seminary.  There  he  formed  the  acquaintance,  and  by  his  amiability 
and  intelligence  won  the  friendship,  of  several  literary  gentlemen.  In  person,  mind 
and  writings,  he  constantly  reminded  me  of  my  conceptions  of  Shelley.  That  physical 
gentleness,  combined  with  intense  love  of  the  ideal  beautiful,  good  and  free,  with  its 
rebellious  warfare  upon  the  dwarfing  and  deforming  conventionalities  of  life,  were  his ; 
but  he  committed  no  breach  of  those  conventionalities,  and  his  morals  were  irreproach 
ably  pure.  His  spirit  as  a  man,  and  his  taste  as  a  poet  were  well  expressed  in  a 
poetical  epistle  to  his  friend,  VIVA  MONA,  from  which  we  quote : 

"  My  grief!  how  many  bards  there  be 
In  that  great  class,  the  human  mocking-bird— 
Their  quills  the  very  same — alike  their  glee  ! 
'Tis  well  they  mock,  else  were  they  never  heard. 
Those  mimic  tongues  do  save  them,  like  the  word 
Shibboleth  of  the  True  ;  But  0,  the  free ! 
The  free,  bold  key-notes  are  my  soul's  loved  strains, 
The  rough,  the  rude,  or  soft,  so  they  scorn  chains." 

He  was  a  diligent  writer,  and  wrote  much  that  was  never  offered  for  publication. 
Of  the  merit  of  those  writings  I  cannot  now  speak  advisedly.  There  was  probably 
much  chaff,  but  certainly  some  golden  grain  that  wanted  only  the  winnowing  of  a 
more  matter-of-fact  critical  mind,  to  entitle  him  to  a  prominent  place  among  the  poets 
of  the  "West.  His  last  contribution  to  the  press,  so  far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  was  a 
prose  story,  of  graphic  satirical  character,  entitled  "Tom  O'Hurry,"  published  in 
Sackefs  Parlor  Paper,  in  December,  1849  or  '50. 

Mr.  Minor's  health  having  been  for  some  time  failing — consumption  had  marked  him 
for  its  own — he  took  his  wife  and  his  young  son,  Harold  R.  Minor,  and  went  to  Illi 
nois,  and  there  laid  him  down  to  rest. 

The  accompanying  poems  are  from  manuscript  placed  in  my  hands  by  my  friend. 
They  are  evidently  some  of  his  earliest  productions,  and  do  not  do  justice  to  his 

abilities. 
(433) 

28 


HORACE    S.    MINOR. 


[1840-50. 


A  NYMPH  WAS  DANCING  ON  A  STREAM. 

A  NYMPH  was  dancing  on  a  stream, 
And  sporting  with  the  sunset  beam 

Right  merrily : 

She  loved  the  glances  of  the  sun, 
And  mourn'd  when  daylight's  gleam  was 

gone 

So  drearily. 

Just  then  appeared  the  night's  fair  Queen, 
The  Nymph  rejoiced  in  her  silver  sheen 

So  carelessly; 

And  rose  again  on  the  crystal  wave. 
Danced  with  the  ray  the  Night-queen  gave, 

So  fearlessly. 

A  voice  in  the  breeze  came  rustling  by 
And  call'd  the  Nymph  ;  she  raised  her  eye 

So  fearfully: 

"  Why  play  the  wanton  with  the  beam 
Of  sun  and  moon,  on  crystal  stream, 

So  cheerfully? 

"  Away !  away !  false  Nymph  away, 
Thou  hast  no  part  in  Luna's  ray, 

Bright  Sol's  is  thine ; 
To  his  love-beam  be  true,  false  naiad, 
Or  brooding  clouds  the  stream  shall  shade, 

No  ray  shall  shine." 

The  voice  grew  hoarse,  the  breeze  a  gale, 
The  moon  was  hid  beneath  a  vail, 

The  Nymph  had  flown; 
And  lo !  the  spirit  of  the  rill, 
Whose  shadow  all  the  place  did  fill, 

Stood  there  alone  : 

And  loudly  laughed  till  the  stream  was 

'rough,— 
The  graceless  wight  knew  well  enough, 

The  golden  flame 

Of  twinkling  stars,  and  crescent  moon, 
And  ardent  sun  at  highest  noon, 
Were  all  the  same. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  A  DREAM. 

WHEN  cloudless  is  the  sky  of  night 

Around  a  world  at  rest, 
When  dew-drops  catch  the  lunar  light 

And  gild  the  flow'rets  crest ; 

When  zephyr's  voice  is  scarcely  heard 
Low  breathing  in  the  grove, 

And  when  no  more  the  evening  bird 
Pours  forth  her  notes  of  love, — 

O !  then's  the  hour  when  music  sweet 
Seeks  softer  scenes  than  ours, 

Where  fancy's  peerless  minstrels  meet 
In  fancy's  airy  bowers. 

My  soul  hath  been  at  that  sweet  time 
Where  sleep's  faint  visions  rise, 

And  heard  a  softer,  sweeter  chime 
Than  when  the  zephyr  sighs. 

Ah !  mortal  tongue  can  never  tell 
Those  symphonies,  which  seem 

Too  high  for  harp  or  evening  bell — 
The  music  of  a  dream. 

The  tremblings  of  the  sweetest  strain 
By  mortal  minstrels  given, 

Vibrate  to  rival  these  in  vain, — 
The  dream-song  touches  heaven  ! 

But  ah !  the  phantom  minstrel  flies, 
And  dream-charmed  souls  awake, 

To  speak  regret  in  real  sighs, 

That  his  sweet  strains  should  break. 

'Tis  thus  with  life — its  terms  of  bliss 

Are  measured  by  a  song, 
The  flitting  form  of  happiness 

Ne'er  tarries  with  us  long. 

The  sweetest  joys,  the  brightest  hours 
That  on  life's  pathway  gleam, 

Die  like  the  harp,  whence  fancy  pours 
The  music  of  a  dream. 


EMELINE   H.   JOHNSON. 


EMELINE  H.  BROWN  was  born  at  Haverhill,  New  Hampshire,  May  seventh,  1826, 
being  the  youngest  of  five  daughters  of  Jabez  and  Mary  Brown,  who  removed  from 
Haverhill  to  Massillon,  Ohio,  in  1828,  at  which  place  Mr.  Brown  died.  In  1836 
Mrs.  Brown  removed  to  Wooster,  Ohio,  starting  a  select  school,  the  first  successful 
enterprise  of  the  kind  in  that  place,  where  she  remained  a  teacher  for  eighteen  years. 

The  education  of  Emeline  was,  therefore,  acquired  entirely  at  home,  and  was  only 
such  as  any  good  English  school  furnishes.  Nature  had,  however,  ordained  her  a 
poet,  and  no  educational  advantages  could  have  done  more  than  to  bring  out  and  help 
to  adorn  her  native  genius.  United  to  quick  and  tender  sensibilities  in  her  disposition, 
was  a  brilliant  wit,  and  the  keenest  perception  of  the  ridiculous.  This  latter  quality- 
was  so  strong  as  sometimes  to  bring  her  under  the  displeasure  of  her  acquaintances, 
who  mistook  for  malicious  satire  the  irresistible  relish  for  humor  which  compelled  her 
to  touch  up  their  peculiarities  with  her  pungent  wit.  But  those  who  knew  her  well, 
knew  that  her  soul  was  too  lofty  and  too  passionate,  to  be  attainted  with  malice,  even 
of  the  merry  sort.  Her  spirit  was,  as  she  herself  expressed  it,  "  moulded  into  being 
from  the  elements  of  fire ; "  and  too  early,  alas !  it  consumed  its  frail  and  beautiful 
tenement.  In  1845,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  she  was  married  to  Perry  Johnson  of 
Wooster,  and  was  left  a  widow  at  twenty-one.  From  the  hour  that  she  gave  up  the  hope 
of  her  husband's  life,  the  arrow  had  entered  her  own  soul.  Neither  health,  nor  gayety, 
nor  even  cheerfulness,  ever  returned  to  her  after  the  faithful  but  fruitless  long  watch- 
ings  by  his  dying  bed.  The  pale,  drooping  but  beautiful,  face  of  the  heart-stricken 
widow,  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  knew  her  then,  for  the  hopelessness  of 
incurable  grief  was  too  plainly  imprinted  upon  it  to  be  mistaken,  or  afterward  forgot 
ten.  Under  this  weight  of  sorrow  the  life-chords  gradually  stretched  and  parted ; 
and  on  the  eighth  of  April,  1850,  the  long  weariness  was  over,  the  grieving  spirit  set 
at  rest  by  death.  One  child,  a  beautiful  boy,  was  left,  but  only  for  a  little  season,  for 
in  less  than  a  year  from  her  death,  the  orphaned  infant  was  laid  beside  his  parents. 
Such  is  the  history,  in  simple  terms,  of  one  born  with  gifts  which  might  have  graced 
the  noblest  circles  of  the  witty  and  the  wise :  in  these  few  words  no  image  can  be  given 
of  the  thrilling  heart-life  which  was  experienced  by  the  patient  and  enduring  spirit. 

No  thought  of  being  a  "literary  woman"  was  ever  entertained  by  the  subject  of 
this  sketch.  Hej-  girlhood  was  passed,  as  girlhood  usually  is,  in  mere  dreamings  of 
the  future ;  and  when  the  stern  realities  of  life  had  come  upon  her,  the  terrible  and 
startling  meaning  left  her  little  leisure  for  the  use  of  the  pen,  even  had  her  mind  not 
been  so  deeply  absorbed  in  her  love  and  her  sorrow,  as  it  was.  The  last  productions  of 
her  pen,  written  from  her  sick-bed,  appeared  in  the  "American  Courier"  published  in 
Philadelphia,  under  the  signature  of  "  Lilly  Layton,"  and  their  identity  was  not 
known  until  after  her  death,  when  the  original  copies  were  found  in  her  portfolio. 

(435) 


43G 


EMELINE    H.    JOHNSON. 


[1840-50. 


Out  of  seventy  or  eighty  pages,  a  few  selections  have  been  made,  from  her  more  re 
cent  and  most  melancholy  pieces.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  so  few  of  her  earlier, 
gayer  and  more  sparkling  verses  have  been  preserved :  but  it  is  in  a  high  degree  sat 
isfactory  to  be  able  to  record  even  this  slight  testimony  of  one  who  was  not  only  a 
poet  and  a  wit,  but  a  gentle  daughter,  a  loving  friend,  a  devoted  wife  and  mother, 
whose  light  went  out  so  early  that  the  world  had  scarcely  seen  it  ere  it  was  extinguished. 


MY  CHILD. 

THOU'RT  weary,  and  thy  little  head  hath 

drooped  upon  my  arm  ; 
The    mirth   is    hushed    upon  thy  lips,   so 

bright  and  red  and  warm ; 
I  meet  no  more  the  flashes  of  thy  large 

and  dreamy  eyes, 
The  dark  fringe  like  a  shadow,  o'er  their 

starry  deepness  lies. 
'Tis  when   the   gentle   dew  of  sleep  thy 

drooping  eyelids  close, 
And   the   long   raven    lashes    sweep   the 

blooming  cheek  of  rose, 
When  from    thy  forehead  carelessly  the 

wavy  hair  is  thrown, 

And  thy  little  heart  so  haplessly  is  beat 
ing  on  my  own ; 
'Tis  then  Affection's  sweetest  thrills  life's 

quivering  pulses  sweep, 
And  love  my  softened  being  fills,  so  wild 

and  pure  and  deep, 
I  tremble  lest  my  erring  heart,  of  other 

ties  bereft, 
Should  make  an  idol  of  the  child  God  in 

his  mercy  left. 

My  lovely  boy,  my  only  child,  my  only 
hope  art  thou ! 

There  beams  a  manly  spirit  on  thy  sweet 
ly  dawning  brow, 

And  large,  and  soft,  and  beautiful  are  thy 
dark  hazel  eyes, 

A  wealth  of  unawakened  thought  in  their 
deep  shadow  lies. 


And  yet  I  often  gaze  on  thee,  and  vainly 

strive  to  trace 
A  lost,  yet  worshiped  image,  in  thy  pure 

unshadowed  face. 
Thy  smile,  though  soft  and  witching,  and 

thine  eyes,  though  large  and  bright, 
Have  not  the  power  of  those  that  made 

my  heart  one  sphere  of  light. 
The  smile  that  was  my  being's  life  is  now 

forever  hid, 

Those  glorious  orbs  are  dark  and  dim,  be 
neath  the  coffin-lid, 
And  all  the  beaming  hopes  lie  dead,  which 

earthly  love  had  given  ; 
Thou  art  the  only  joy  that  comes  between 

my  heart  and  Heaven. 

Into  the  Future's  dim  domain  my  plead 
ing  heart  goes  forth, 

And  claims  for  thee  a  place  among  the 
glorious  of  the  earth : 

I  sometimes  think  I  can  discern  the  prom 
ise,  even  now, 

Of  intellectual  greatness,  on  thy  pure,  un 
sullied  brow, — 

Yet  ere  thy  dawning  mind  shall  grasp  the 
meed  I  ask  for  thee, 

Ere  the  Future's  dim  uncertain  years  a 
path  to  glory  be, 

The  winds  will  wail  a  requiem  oft,  and  the 
wild  grass  shall  wave, 

And  many  a  time  the  sweet  spring  flowers 
shall  bloom  upon  my  grave. 

For  one,  whose  deepest,  purest  love,  to 
thee  and  me  was  given, 


1840-50.] 


EM  E  LINE    H.    JOHNSON. 


437 


With  love  for  us  unfading  still,  dwells  far 

away  in  Heaven. 
Those  eyes  are  ever  in  my  heart,  drawing 

my  soul  to  him  : 
Their  glance  of  love  grows  brighter  still, 

as  the  lamp  of  life  grows  dim. 
Far,  far  beyond  the  glowing  stars,  in  the 

bright  world  above, 
We    will   together   watch   o'er   thee,  and 

guard  thee  with  our  love ; 
And  though  alone,  in  the  dark  world,  a 

strong  unfailing  arm, 

Will  be  forever  round  thee  thrown,  defend 
ing  thee  from  harm. 
Thy  feeble  steps  will  be  upheld,  that  tread 

earth's  lonely  wild, 
"The  Father  of  the  fatherless"  will  guard 

my  only  child. 


THE  DAUGHTER'S  REQUEST. 

FATHER,  they  tell  me  to-night  thou'lt  bring 

A  bride  to  our  home  of  sadness; 
And  the  halls  of  mourning  again  will  ring 

With  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  gladness. 
Father,  my  heart  is  sad — and  wild — 

With  anguish  my  brain  is  reeling ! 
Nay!   frown  not  thus  on  thy  motherless 
child, 

But  bear  with  this  burst  of  feeling. 

Thou  know'st  on  my  mother's  grave,  the 
flowers 

Of  a  year,  have  scarcely  started ; 
Then  chide  me  not,  if  in  this  sad  hour, 

I  weep  for  the  dear  departed. 
Oh,  bear  with  the  gushing  tears  awhile, 

For  my  heart  is  oppressed  with  sadness ; 
And  then  to-night,  I  will  strive  to  smile, 

And  wear  a  look  of  gladness. 

Father ! — a  boon  I  ask — 'tis  all 

Thou  mayst  grant  to  a  heart  thus  riven ; 


'Tis  the  image  that  hangs  in  yonder  hall, 
Of  her  who  is  now  in  Heaven ! 

That  beautiful  face  so  sweetly  mild, 
With  its  look  of  gentle  meekness ; 

Hath  a  power  o'er  the  heart  of  her  erring 

child, 
In  its  wildest  moments  of  weakness. 

And    to-night,    when    those     maddening 
thoughts  arise, 

Which  my  spirit  of  peace  is  robbing, 
I  will  gaze  in  the  depths  of  those  soft  dark 
eyes, 

Till  it  stilleth  my  heart's  wild  throbbing! 
They  tell  me  she  thou  wilt  bring  to-night, 

Is  fair  as  a  poet's  vision ; 
A  creature  with  form  and  face  as  bright, 

As  they  who  people  Elysium. 

But  it  swelleth  my  heart  with  painful  thrill, 

That  the  image  of  another, 
Ere  her  kiss  is  cold  on  our  lips,  should  fill 

The  place  of  my  sainted  mother. 
But  grant  me  the  boon  I  ask,  and  though 

Each  fiber  with  grief  is  aching, 
Thy  beautiful  bride  shall  never  know 

That  the  heart  of  thy  child  is  breaking ! 


AFFECTION  BEYOND  THE  GRAVE. 

THE  dead!  the  dead!  will  they  forget  to 
love  us, 

In  the  far  spirit-land  beyond  the  skies? 
Do  they  not  keep  an  angel  guard  above  us, 

Watching   us    ever    with    their    starry 

eyes? 
And  is  not  love  inseparate  from  the  spirit, 

Our  being's  light,  our  life's  vitality; 
And  will  it  not  too  with  the  soul  inherit 

The  blessed  gift  of  immortality? 

In  yonder  room,  from  which  the  daylight 


Leaveth  a  glory  with  its  parting  breath; 


438 


KM  KLINE    H.    JOHNSON. 


[1840-50. 


A  wife  bends  o'er  a  couch  whereon  is  lying 
Her  young  heart's  idol  stricken  down  to 

death. 
Vain  seems  that  suffering  love,  for  what 

availeth 

The  strength  of  all  its  wild  intensity, 
Striving  with  death,  when  death  at  length 

prevaileth, 

And  strikes  his  heart  with  life's  worst 
agony? 

Yet  in  that   darkened  soul  one  hope  is 

cherished, 

A  starlight  gleaming  through  the  mid 
night  sky; 
And  that  hope  whispers,  though  the  heart 

hath  finished, 
The  love  within  that  heart  can  never 

die! 
Sees    not    thine   inner   sight    yon    spirit 

bending 

Amid  the  glory  of  the  world  above? 
That  spirit,  with  thine  own  forever  blend 
ing* 

Will  guide  and  guard  thee  with  a  death 
less  love. 

Believes  that  mother's  heart,  whose  all  is 

centered 

In  the  child  fading  out  of  life,  that  now 
Her  pain  hath  no  reward,  since  death  hath 

entered, 
And    placed   his  signet  on   that   angel 

brow? 
Amid  that  very  gloom  her  soul  is  catching 

A  glory  which  it  never  knew  before, 
She    seeth    with    her    heart    above    her 

watching, 

Her  own  bright  guardian  angel  ever 
more  ! 

And  that  pale  mourning  mother's  heart  is 

teeming 

With  a  still  deeper,  purer  tenderness; 
Those    eyes    forever    in    her    soul     are 

gleaming, 
Hallowing  all  its  grief  with  holiness. 


And  hath  that  child  cast  off  the  heart  for 
ever, 
That  mother's  heart  with  its  exhaustless 

love? 
If  so,  then   death  hath  power  indeed  to 

sever 

The  strongest  bonds  that  draw  our  souls 
above ! 

Oh,  vain  were   all   the   heart's    resistless 

yearning, 
And   vain   were   life,   and   vain    were 

memory's  trust, 
Did   the    soul's    life,    the   love   within   it 

burning, 
Die  with  the  clay,  and  perish  back  to 

dust! 

Ah,  no!  one  thought  earth's  lonely  path 
way  cheereth, 
Bidding   the   darkness  from  around  it 

flee; 
The  loved  in  life,  whom  death  the  more 

endeareth, 
Dearest  shall  be  through  all  eternity! 


THE  VOWS. 

FLITTING  memories  o'er  me  come, 
Like  those  half-forgotten  dreams, 
Which  we  catch  in  transient  gleams, 
Bringing  in  their  flight  the  hum 
Of  wild  birds  and  gushing  streams ; 
And  a  vision  strangely  bright 
Flits  before  my  fancy's  sight. 

Twas  the  pleasant  summer  time, 
When  the  year  is  in  its  prime, 
And  the  silvery-footed  hours, 
Laden  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Through  a  maze  of  gorgeous  light, 
Flinging  music  in  their  flight, 
Glide  in  dreaminess  along, 


1840-50.] 


EMELINE    II.    JOHNSON. 


439 


Bringing  o'er  the  heart  a  throng 
Of  wild  memories,  sad  and  sweet, 
While  the  hidden  pulses  beat 
With  a  low  and  mournful  tone, 
For  returnless  pleasures  gone. 

'Twas  a  brilliant  night  in  June, 

And  the  mild  and  placid  moon, 

From  her  starry  girted  height, 

Poured  a  flood  of  love-like  light, 

Over  hill  and  vale  and  stream, 

And  the  stars  beamed  sadly  bright, 

As  the  vision  of  a  dream. 

Two  young  lovely  beings  stood 

In  the  margin  of  a  wood: 

One  a  youth  of  seventeen, 

With  an  eye  as  flashing  keen 

As  the  eagle's  in  its  flight, 

When  it  drinks  the  blazing  light; — 

And  he  bent  an  earnest  gaze, 

On  the  young  and  girlish  face 

Turning  upward  to  his  own, 

O'er  which  love's  soft  light  was  thrown 

She  a  girl  of  azure  eyes, 

Dark  and  dreamy  as  the  skies. 

One  white  arm,  all  round  and  bare, 

Rested  in  his  glossy  hair, 

And  as  arm  and  ringlet  met, 

Gleaming  snow  entwined  with  jet, 

One  dark,  soft  and  silken  curl 

Lay  upon  her  neck  of  pearl, 

Mingling,  in  a  mazy  fold, 

With  her  locks  of  wavy  gold. 

Let  us  listen  to  their  vows  : 

"By  the  dew  upon  the  boughs, 
By  the  countless  stars,  that  gleam 
Yonder,  in  the  silver  stream, 
By  the  lilies  bending  there; 
As  thine  own  young  forehead  fair; 
By  the  violet-cups  that  lave 
Their  blue  petals  in  the  wave; 
By  the  love-inspiring  light, 


Pouring  down  from  yonder  height; 
By  the  dark  blue  midnight  skies; 
Deep  as  thine  own  azure  eyes; 
By  the  loveliest  things  we  see, 
Thee  I  love,  and  only  thee!" 

"Ah!  that  dew  at  dawning  day, 
From  the  bough  will  melt  away; 
And  those  stars,  which  beam  so  bright, 
And  that  love-inspiring  light ; 
All  must  vanish  with  the  night, 
And  the  flowers  will  droop  and  die, 
Ere  another  day  glides  by ; 
And  those  skies  so  darkly  blue, 
In  an  hour  will  change  their  hue. 
Even  now  these  things  decay, 
Where's  thy  love  then? — pass'd  away!" 

"  By  thine  own  sweet  ruby  lips 
By  thy  cheek  whose  hues  eclipse, 
In  their  deep  and  changing  glow, 
Sunset's  rosy  gleam  on  snow, 
By  thy  bright  hair's  wavy  curl, 
By  thy  spotless  brow  of  pearl, 
By  thy  deep  and  well-like  eyes 
Where  a  world  of  passion  lies, 
Do  I  bend  before  thy  shrine ; 
And  till  these  shall  cease  to  shine, 
I  am  thine,  and  only  thine!" 

"Ah!  these  too,  must  soon  decay, 

Where's  thy  love  then? — pass'd  away!" 

"By  the  love  that  dwells  the  while, 

In  thine  own  bewitching  smile, 

By  affection's  springs,  that  deep 

Hidden  in  thy  bosom  sleep, 

By  the  love  that  spurns  control, 

Deep  within  thine  inmost  soul, 

By  the  wild  idolatry, 

Thy  young  heart  doth  bear  to  me, 

By  this  then,  and  this  alone, 

I  am  heart  and  soul  thine  own!" 

"These  can  never  pass  away 

I  am  thine,  and  thine  for  aye!" 


ABBY  ALLIN   CURTISS. 


ABBT  ALLIN  CURTISS  is  the  daughter  of  Daniel  and  Betsey  Allin,  and  the  young 
est  of  four  children.  Her  father  was  long  a  sea-captain,  in  the  foreign  trade ;  his 
home  being  at  Providence,  Rhode  Island.  Resigning  his  profession,  Captain  Allin 
purchased  and  settled  upon  a  farm,  in  Pomfret,  Connecticut,  where,  September  fifteenth, 
1820,  Abby  was  born.  Miss  Allin's  earliest  efforts  in  poetry  were  made  in  1846.  A 
pathetic  ballad,  "Take  me  Home  to  Die,"  her  first  piece,  was  published  in  NeaFs 
Gazette.  In  1850,  James  Monroe  &  Company,  Boston.  Massachusetts,  published  a 
volume  of  her  poems,  entitled  "Home  Ballads,"  which  met  with  a  pleasant  reception, 
and  enjoyed  a  full  average  popularity  of  young  authors,  with  the  literary  public. 

In  September,  1852,  Miss  Allin  was  married  to  Daniel  S.  Curtiss,  Farmer-Editor, 
then  of  Chicago,  Illinois,  and  soon  after  removed  with  him  to  Madison,  Wisconsin — 
where  they  engaged  in  agricultural  pursuits — which  is  their  present  place  of  residence. 


THE  HEART'S  CONFLICT. 

THERE  is  no  coldness  in  my  heart  to  thee — 

Thy  presence  thrills 
Me  with  an  added  sense  of  ecstacy ; 

I  would  be  still, 
And  mutely  sit  thus  at  thy  side — 

Aye,  at  thy  feet ; 

And  upward  gaze 
Into  thy  deep,  mysterious  eyes, 

Whose  softened  rays — 
Of  pity,  sooth,  or  tenderness — 

Have  power  to  bless  ! 
Exalted  by  my  love's  excess, 

It  is  most  meet, 

That  at  thy  feet, 
Clad  in  sweet  love's  humblest  guise, 

I  thus  should  sit, 

And  watch  thine  eyes 

Their  life  emit ; 
Whose  rays,  dropped  down, 
Fall  on  me  like  a  crown ! 


Aye,  lay  thy  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  gather  me  to  thy  heart ; 
I  would  no  longer  be  alone — 

From  thee  a  thing  apart : 
On  this  poor  earth  a  pilgrim  lone, 
From  whom  all    love    hath   passed    and 
gone ! 

Love  ?  aye,  life — for  love  is  life ! 
What  a  poor,  petty,  causeless  strife — 

Of  words,  we  gather — 

Of  forms,  the  rather — 
Thus  manacling  a  free-born  thing ; 
For  love  is  life,  and  life  a  spring ! 

The     world!       What     is     it?       Let     it 

pass ; 

Like  the  dead  image  on  the  glass — 
Like  the  spent  shadows  on  the  grass — 

The  mastery  is  thine  own  ! 
Sweet,  press  thy  lips  again  to  mine, 

I  am  thine, 

And  thine  alone ! 


(440) 


1850-tiO.] 


ABBY    ALLIN    CURTISS. 


441 


Fond  heart,  why  tremblest  so  ?     Thou  lov 

est! 

Others  have  loved  before ; 
That  whole  sweet  bondage  that  thou  prov 

est, 
Hath  this  extent  no  more ! 

What  though  man  presumptously, 
Look  on  thee  reprovingly — 
Casting  glances  pityingly ; 

"Go  to,  thou  whited  wall!" 
Cast  thy  pity  otherwhere  ; 
What  am  I  that  thou  shouldst  dare 

Reproach  me  with  my  thrall  ? 

Woman !     O  thou  most  inhuman, 
To  the  weaknesses  of  woman ! 

Durst  thou  robe  thyself  in  pride, 
Casting  marah  in  my  cup — 
Gathering  thy  garments  up, 

Passing  on  the  other  side  ? 

0,  the  strife,  the  struggle  deep ! 

I  am  weary,  I  would  rest ; 
Let  me  rock  myself  asleep, 

On  the  heavings  of  thy  breast ; 
With  the  innocence  of  youth, 
With  the  purity  of  truth  ; 

Let  me  then,  all  undefined — 
Sheltered  in  thy  watchful  arms, 
Safe  from  all  this  life's  alarms — 

Rest  me,  even  as  a  child ! 

Thou  high-priest  of  the  inner  shrine, 
Conscience,  the  realm  is  thine  ! 

Make  thou  the  choice — 

Thy  still  small  voice — 
Heard  round  about  me  everywhere, 
Biddeth  thee,  true  heart  lean  to  prayer, 

As  refuge  and  repose  ; 
Not  to  vain  refuges  of  lies, 
Turn  thou  thine  eyes — 
Look  upward  to  the  skies, 

Poor  soul,  and  find  a  close ! 


WORK  WITH  A  WILL. 

PULL  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

Labor  itself  is  pleasure  and  health ; 
Man  is  a  creature  of  infinite  skill, 

And  contentment  is  seldom  the  handmaid 

of  wealth. 
Life  is   at  best  but  a  rugged  ascent, 

For  ever,  and  ever,  and  ever  up  hill ; 
Yet  nothing  is  gained  to  a  man  by  dissent, 

Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will! 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

God  is  the  Master  urging  us  on  ; 
Idleness  bringeth  us  trouble  and  ill, 

Labor  itself  is  happiness  won ! 
Work  with  the  heart,  and  work  with  the 

brain, 
Work  with  the  hands,  and  work  with  the 

will; 

Step  after  step  we  conquer  the  plain, 
Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will! 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

No  one  can  tell  the  length  of  his  stay ; 
Already  the  sun  is  climbing  the  hill ! 

Up  and  be  doing,  while  it  is  day  ! 
Never  despair,  though  much  must  be  done  ; 

A  river  at  birth  is  naught  but  a  rill ; 
Another  may  finish  what  you  have  begun, 

Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will! 

Pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a  will, 

Let  not  a  drone-bee  live  in  the  hive  ; 
The  world  driveth  on  like  a  busy  old  mill, 
And  each  with  our  web  we  busily  strive. 
Our  Father,  who  scanncth  the  ocean  and 

land. 

This  beautiful  world  of  valley  and  hill, 
Seeth  naught  but  a  six  days'  "work  of  his 

hand — 

Then  pull  away  cheerily,  work  with  a 
will ! 


TRUE  W.   HO  IT. 


TRUE  W.  HOIT  is  a  son  of  New  Hampshire,  who  has  been  for  about  twenty 
years  a  prosperous  merchant  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  In  early  life  he  learned  the  art 
and  mystery  of  printing  newspapers,  and  was,  for  a  short  time,  an  editor.  He  has 
written  several  long  poems  for  special  occasions,  which  are  well  sustained,  and  is  the 
author  of  many  short  ones  which  have  the  merit  that  finds  favor  with  those  who  wield 
editorial  scissors — directness  and  sweetness.  Mr.  Hoit  is  now  about  forty  years  of 
age.  He  has  practiced  prose  writing  with  success,  and  has  reputation  as  an  orator. 
Most  of  his  poems  have  been  published  in  St.  Louis  magazines  and  newspapers. 


CURE  FOR  SCANDAL. 

TAKE  of  the  toad  the  brains  and  ear-wax ; 

bring 

The  spider's  fang,  the  adder's  poison  sting; 
A  lizard's  eye-balls,  tarantula's  tongue ; 
The    chigre's  eggs,   and  fire-fly's   maggot 

young; 

Of  newt  the  iris,  armadillo's  gall ; 
Cockchafer's  grub,  and  scorpion,  sting  and 

all; 
Two  buzzards'  beaks,  first  hardened  in  the 

fire  ; 

Four  famished  serpents  ready  to  expire  ; 
A  living  asp,  which  sure  the  fang  includes ; 
A  salamander's  fluid  that  exudes ; 
A  flea's  proboscis,  and  a  viper's  eyes ; 
Four  printed  scandals,  three  detected  lies; 
A  beetle's  head,  a  locust's  palate  dried ; 
And   ten  mosquitoes'  snouts  in  strychnine 

fried; 

A  wasp's  stiletto  ;  flying-dragon's  ears  : 
These  saturate  with  alligator's  tears — 
With  alcohol  then  simmer  in  the  skull 
Of  a  black  ape  ;  fill  the  vessel  full — 
Reduce  the  mass,  and  add  one  screech-owl's 


eye; 


The  munis'  tongue,  cantharides  the  fly; 


A  coquette's  dimples,  and  a  flunky's  nose, 
An  idiot's  brains,  an  hideous  hydra's  toes; 
A  hornet's  armor,  and  a  wild  boar's  foam  ; 
A  polecat's  odor,  and  a  Shanghai's  comb 
(Harmless  this  la^t  ingredient,  I  trust, 
Save  that  a  coxcomb  always  gives  disgust  ;) 
The    burning     froth    from    hydrophobia's 

maw, 

A  dragon's  blood,  a  scolopendra's  claw  ; 
Chameleon's  thorax,  monad's  marrow,  fine  ; 
A  moth,  a  weevil,  and  an  earwig's  spine; 
Into    the    cauldron    two    apes'    eyebrows 

fling, 
And   fan   the    contents    with  a   vampire's 

wing. 

Stir,  stir  the  jelly  with  Attila's  steel, 
His  blood-stained  dagger  let  the  slanderer 

feel. 
Apply    this    mixture    to    the    slanderer's 

tongue, 
Moistened  with  tears  from  slandered  virtue 

wrung; 
And  should  one  dose  of  this  prescription 


And  the  dire  venom  of  his  tongue  prevail, 
Just  add  a  section  of  the  slanderer's  tale. 


Should  the  concocted  poisons  fail  of  cure, 
The  last  named  virus,  added,  will  be  sure. 

(442) 


1850-60.] 


TRUE    W.    HOIT. 


443 


ODE  TO  WASHINGTON. 

THEY  hold  a  taper  to  the  sun, 

And  boast  its  glories  near  his  shrine — 
Who  claim  the  palm  for  victories  won. 

Or  regal  fame,  compare  with  thine ! 

The  gild  of  pride,  the  pomp  of  power, 
Like  glittering  insects,  in  thy  rays, 

Dissolve  and  vanish  in  an  hour — 

But  fame  prolongs  thy  lengthened  days. 

Heroes  and  kings  may  deck  the  page 
With  storied  deeds,  arid  trophies  bright, 

And  laureled  bards  in  phrenzy  rage, 
Their  transient  honors  to  requite. 

But  fame  herself  adorns  thy  brow 
With  honors  time  can  never  fade, 

And  truth,  eternally,  as  now, 

Shines  forth  in  thy  pure  soul  arrayed. 

Why  doth  the  sage  thy  deeds  indite, 
And  gather  trophies  round  thy  tomb? 

Why  weave  his  glowing  chaplet  bright, 
To  deck  that  paradise  of  gloom  ? 

What  magic  spell  asserts  its  sway, 
To  kindle  in  the  souls  of  men 

Blessed  visions  of  a  brighter  day  ? 
Ah !  all  shall  meet  as  brothers  then  ! 

The  golden  epoch  shall  return, 

Peace  guide  the  nations  as  of  yore, 

When  man  thy  mission  shall  discern, 
And  at  the  shrine  of  truth  adore. 

Look  down,  Immortal !  from  thy  car — 
The  chariot  of  the  sun  restrain ! 

I  hear  thee  whisper  from  afar, 

The  peaceful  age  shall  come  again. 


THE  TRUE  WOMAN. 

I  LOVE  the  woman!  all  her  joy  is  home; 
Her  constant  nature  disinclines  to  roam  : 
Her  love  and  joy  the  clouds  of  care  dispel, 
And  angel  hope,  and  peace,  securely  dwell : 
Our  rising  country's  hope  its  tributes  bring, 
Hence  all  our  power,  and  fame,  and  glory 
spring. 

I  love  the  woman  !  for  the  starving  poor 
Go  satisfied  and  cheerful  from  her  door; 
Her  generous  nature  shuns  the  pomp  of  art 
The  social  virtues  cluster  round  her  heart, — 
Unchanged   as  maiden,  widow,  or  as  wife, 
Graced  with  the  bland  amenities  of  life. 

I  love  the  woman !  in  her  tranquil  soul 
Bright  visions  of  the  future  gently  roll, 
One  manly  heart,  reliant  and  alone, 
Responsive  knows  her  pleasure's  all  his 

own. 

So  virtue  crowns  their  days,  renewed  again 
To  life  immortal,  in  their  smiling  train. 

I  love  the  woman !  for  the  smiling  throng 
Of  little  loved  ones  listen  to  her  song, 
And,  charmed  to  silence,  turn  their  laugh 
ing  eyes, 
To  mark  her  smiles  of  love,  with  sweet 

surprise, 

And  at  the  end  of  each  melodious  strain, 
Demand   the   song,  and  wake  her  smiles 
again. 

love  the  woman  !  for  no  sland'rous  tongue 
Condemns  her  blushing  cheek  with  bor 
rowed  wrong ; 
So  tell-tale  nymphs  dilate  upon  her  fame, 
Nor   preface   scandals   with   her   honored 

name ; 

All  pay  her  homage  who  delight  to  share 
Her  blissful  home,  or  copy  virtue  there. 


WILLIAM   HUBBARD. 


BORX  at  the  quiet  rural  village  of  West  Liberty,  on  the  southern  border  of  Logan 
county,  Ohio,  on  the  seventeenth  May,  1821,  William  Hubbard  inherited  nothing  but 
an  honest  name,  a  healthy  constitution,  and  a  vigorous  intellect.  Deprived  of  a 
father's  care  at  an  early  age,  he  grew  up  under  the  guidance  of  a  widowed  mother, 
whose  exemplary  virtues,  strong  good  sense,  and  patient  industry,  left  their  impress  on 
the  mind  and  character  of  her  son. 

At  that  early  day,  the  "  log  school-house  "  furnished  almost  the  only  means  of  edu 
cation  ;  but  with  this,  and  that  home  training  which  every  mother  should  be  compe 
tent  to  afford,  William  became  well  versed  in  all  the  usual  branches  of  an  English 
education. 

Early  in  the  year  1832  he  took  his  first  lessons  in  the  "art  preservative  of  arts" — 
the  printing  business — in  the  office  of  the  Logan  Gazette,  a  newspaper  then  edited 
and  conducted,  in  Bellefontaine,  by  Hiram  B.  Strother.  Here  he  served  with  fidelity, 
skill,  and  industry  for  seven  years,  when,  early  in  1839,  he  became  the  publisher  of 
the  paper,  and  continued  as  such  for  a  period  of  six  months.  During  all  this  time, 
as,  indeed,  in  the  years  which  followed,  he  employed  his  leisure  moments  in  de 
veloping  his  literary  taste,  and  in  the  profound  study  of  the  best  writers  of  prose  and 
poetry. 

In  the  summer  of  1841  he  began  his  career  as  a  school  teacher  in  a  district  near 
his  native  village,  in  one  of  the  ever-memorable,  universal  "  people's  colleges  "  of  the 
times,  the  "  log  school-house."  In  this  useful,  but  perplexing  and  ill-paid  capacity, 
he  continued  most  of  his  time,  until  the  fall  of  1845.  Meantime,  in  1841,  he  had  de 
termined  to  study  the  profession  of  law,  and  for  that  purpose  became  the  student  of 
Benjamin  Stanton  and  William  Lawrence,  attorneys  in  Bellefontaine.  His  studies 
were  somewhat  interrupted  by  his  duties  as  teacher,  and  by  his  literary  pursuits,  yet 
as  he  had  made  it  a  rule  of  his  life  never  to  do  any  thing  imperfectly,  he  was  not  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar  until  he  had  become  a  thoroughly  well-read  lawyer,  in  the  year  1846. 

In  the  fall  of  1845  Mr.  Hubbard  was  editor  of  The  Logan  Gazette,  and,  in  1847, 
becoming  owner  of  the  press,  he  has  ever  since  been  its  editor  and  proprietor.  As  a 
political  writer  he  has  a  wide  and  deservedly  high  reputation.  Notwithstanding  his 
duties  as  an  editor,  he  was  elected  Prosecuting  Attorney  of  Logan  county,  in  1848, 
and  again  in  1850,  and,  in  that  capacity,  served  with  skill  and  ability  for  four  years, 
when  he  declined  a  re-election. 

In  1858  Mr.  Hubbard  received  the  nomination  of  the  political  party  to  which  he 
belongs,  as  its  candidate  for  Congress.  He  could  scarcely  hope  for  success  in  a  dis 
trict  largely  opposed  to  him  politically,  but  though  defeated,  his  vote  was  highly  com 
plimentary.  In  debates  and  addresses  in  that  canvass,  he  added  much  to  his  reputa 
tion  as  an  orator. 

(  444  ) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    HUBBARD. 


445 


Early  love  of  books,  a  warm  imagination,  cultivated  by  study  and  by  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  the  fertile  valley  of  the  Mad  river,  with  a  heart  full  of  pathos  and  of  ardor, 
all  contributed  to 

"  Wake  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre," 

and  turn  his  thoughts  into  eloquence  and  poetry.  His  first  published  poetical  produc 
tion  was  in  January,  1838.  We  have  never  known  a  writer  of  so  much  genius  with 
so  little  ostentation.  He  has  never  sought,  but  always  shunned  notoriety.  His  poet 
ical  writings,  if  collected,  would  make  a  good  sized  volume. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  SIMON  KENTON. 

TREAD  lightly,  this  is  hallowed  ground ! — 

tread  reverently  here ! 
Beneath  this  sod  in  silence  sleeps  the  brave 

old  Pioneer, 
Who  never  quailed  in  darkest  hour,  whose 

heart  ne'er  felt  a  fear — 
Tread  lightly,  then,  and  here  bestow  the 

tribute  of  a  tear. 

Ah !  can  this  be  the  spot  where  sleeps  the 

bravest  of  the  brave  ? 
Is  this  rude  slab  the  only  mark  of  Simon 

Kenton's  grave  ? 
These  fallen  palings,  are  they  all  his  in- 

grate  country  gave 
To  one  who  periled  life  so  oft  her  homes 

and  hearths  to  save  ? 

Long,  long  ago,  in  manhood's  prime,  when 

all  was  wild  and  drear, 
They  bound  the  hero  to  a  stake  of  savage 

torment  here — 
Unblanched  and  firm,  his  soul  disdained  a 

supplicating  tear — 
A  thousand  demons  could  not  daunt  the 

Western  Pioneer. 

They  tied  his  hands,  Mazeppa-like,  and  set 

him  on  a  steed, 
Wild  as  the  mustang  of  the  plains — and, 

mocking,  bade  him  speed ! 


Then  sped  that  courser  like  the  wind,  of 

curb  and  bit  all  freed. 
O'er  flood  and   field,   o'er  hill  and  dale* 

wherever  chance  might  lead ! 

But  firm  in  every  trial-hour,  his  heart  was 

still  the  same — 
Still    throbbed    with   self-reliance    strong 

which  danger  could  not  tame. 
Yet  fought  he  not  that  he  might  win  the 

splendor  of  a  fame, 
Which  would,  in  ages  long  to  come,  shed 

glory  on  his  name  ; 

He  fought  because  he  loved  the  land  where 
first  he  saw  the  light — 

He  fought  because  his  soul  was  true,  and 
idolized  the  right ; 

And  ever  in  the  fiercest  and  the  thickest 
of  the  fight 

The  dusk  and  swarthy  foeman  felt  the  ter 
ror  of  his  might. 

Are  these  his  countrymen  who  dwell  where 
long  ago  he  came  ? 

Are  these  the  men  who  glory  in  the  splen 
dor  of  his  fame  ? 

And  can  they  not  afford  to  give  a  stone  to 
bear  his  name  ? 

0  never  let  them  more  presume  the  hero's 
dust  to  claim ! 


446 


WILLIAM    H  U  B  B  A  R  D . 


[1840-50. 


THE  HOUR  OF  TRIUMPH. 

WITH  the  darkest  cloud  that  ever 

Cast  its  shadow  on  my  way, 
Always  came  a  gleam  of  sunshine, 

With  its  vivifying  ray ; 
To  the  bowed  and  broken  spirit 

Ever  thus  it  seemed  to  say: 
"  There  will  come  a  day  of  sunlight, 

When  the  cloud  has  passed  away." 

And  that  promise  ne'er  was  broken — 

Light  has  always  come  at  last ! 
And  it  ever  shone  the  clearer 

For  the  darkness  that  was  past. 
Thus  was  taught  to  me  a  lesson 

Which  I  never  will  forget — 
"  Always  hope  the  hour  of  triumph, 

It  has  never  failed  thee  yet ! " 

Men  may  hate  me  and  condemn  me 

And  my  deeds  misrepresent ; 
To  endure  their  shameless  falsehood 

For  a  time  I  am  content. 
There's  a  bow  of  promise  o'er  me, 

In  my  sky  forever  set —  . 
It  will  come,  the  hour  of  triumph, 

It  has  never  failed  me  yet ! 


ZACHARY  TAYLOR. 

NOT  where  the  spicy  breezes 

Of  a  tropic  climate  fann'd, 
The,  star-illumined  banner 

Of  the  hero's  idol-land  : 
Not  in  the  storm  of  battle, 

Where  the  bayonet  gleamed  high, 
'Mid  the.  drum  and  trumpet's  clangor 

AY;i-  the  patriot  to  die! 

When  the  cannon  stilled  its  thunder, 
When  the  saber  hid  its  sheen, 


When  the  turf  by  blood  encrimsoned 
Reiissumed  its  garb  of  green  : 

When  the  worn  and  weary  soldier 
Laid  his  plume  and  helmet  by, 

And  the  battle-horse  unharnessed 
Paled  the  lightning  of  his  eye  ; 

When  the  swart  and  stalwart  plowman 

From  the  field  of  strife  and  blood, 
Sought  the  brookside  in  the  valley, 

Where  his  natal  cottage  stood ; 
When  the  nation  all  was  festal 

At  the  ghastly  war's  surcease, 
When  the  people  were  reposing 

In  the  radiant  light  of  peace; 

When  a  grateful  nation  bade  him 

Lay  the  plume  and  helm  aside, 
Then  the  scarred  and  stricken  hero 

Of  the  many  battles  died  ! 
He  is  sleeping  with  the  greatest 

And  the  bravest  of  the  dead, 
With  his  country's  blessing  o'er  him 

And  her  laurels  on  his  head! 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  FARMER. 

A  SONG  I  sing,  an  humble  song 

For  the  farmer's  honest  calling; 
Whose  sinews  strong  toil  all  day  long 

In  plowing,  threshing,  mauling — 
Whose  manly  step  and  upright  form 

We  recognize  on  meeting — 
Whose  hardened  hand  we  haste  to  grasp 

In  friendship's  cordial  greeting. 

STo  tinsel  trapping  decks  the  hand 

So  honestly  extended; 

r  yet  by  kid  or  silken  glove 

Is  it  from  winds  defended. 
Bronzed,  and  hard,  and  rough  with  toil, 

The  breezes  pass  unheeded, 
3r  warded  off  by  housewife's  thrift 

With  mittens  warm  when  needed. 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    HUBBARD. 


447 


No  broadcloth  fine  from  foreign  land 

Was  for  his  coat  imported ; 
No  silk  or  satin  for  his  vest 

By  skillful  hands  assorted. 
That  coat  and  vest  in  cruder  form 

His  own  sheep  wore  while  grazing, 
And  even  his  shirt  so  white  was  wrought 

From  flax  of  his  own  raising. 

Dependent  upon  God  alone, 

His  bread,  or  corn,  or  wheaten, 
Is  garnered  from  his  fertile  field, 

And  thankfully  is  eaten  ; 
The  family  gathered  'round  his  board 

With  reverence  look  to  Heaven, 
And  bless  the  God  by  whom  alone 

Their  competence  is  given. 

Ho  !  'tis  the  Spring — the  sunny  Spring ! 

The  grass  is  faintly  peeping 
Above  the  earth  where  it  so  long 

In  icy  bonds  was  sleeping ; 
The  birds  are  singing  in  the  brake, 

The  cattle  loud  are  lowing, 
The  peacock  struts  with  prouder  step, 

And  chanticleer  is  crowing. 

Off  to  his  field  the  farmer  hies 

To  plow  the  lengthened  furrow — 
To  rouse  the  ground-mole  from  his  sleep. 

The  rabbit  from  his  burrow — 
To  turn  once  more  the  mellow  mould, 

Or  rend  the  sod  long  growing, 
Or  with  the  harrow  harsh  prepare 

His  field  for  time  of  sowing. 

Anon  there  come  the  fervid  days, 

When — like  a  clear  lake  laving 
Its  emerald  shore  with  billowy  spray — 

The  golden  fields  are  waving. 
Then  does  the  farmer  with  the  dawn 

Arouse  the  laggard  sleepers, 
And  hieing  merrily  away 

He  leads  the  band  of  reapers. 

Lo !  Autumn  comes !  the  misty  days, 
So  balmy,  so  delicious — 


No  sun  "intolerably  shines," 
No  wint'ry  winds  capricious — 

The  golden  apple  ripely  hangs 
On  orchard  bough  well  laden, 

And  for  the  purple,  clustering  grape 
Go  forth  the  swain  and  maiden. 

And  while  they  seek  the  luscious  fruit, 

They  plan  the  future  party — 
The  ever-merry  husking  night, 

Of  pleasure  free  and  hearty ; 
Or  for  the  idle  who  prefer 

A  sport  less  mixed  with  toiling, 
They  choose  some  bright  October  night 

For  apple-butter  boiling. 

The  mind  must  have  its  pleasures  too, 

And  by  the  log  fire  burning, 
Are  old  and  young  with  useful  books, 

The  storied  pages  turning — 
Beguiled  are  those  from  ills  of  age — 

While  these  are  well  preparing 
For  future  life — its  joys  and  ills, 

Its  woes  or  honors  bearing. 

Thus  is  the  farmer's  house  the  home 

Of  innocent  enjoyment — 
Thus  pass  his  moments  when  relieved 

From  out-of-door  employment : 
Oh  ever  thus  may  be  his  lot 

Of  labor  mixed  with  pleasure 
Until  his  threescore  years  and  ten 

Fill  to  the  brim  life's  measure. 


THE  PRINTER. 

WE  knew  a  little  printer  once, 
Who  was  a  clever  fellow 

Jntil  he  got  to  be  quite  hard, 
By  dint  of  getting  mellow. 

:Ie  well  could  "justify  his  lines," 
And  this  induced  his  thinking 


448 


WILLIAM    HUBBARD. 


[1850-60. 


That  he  could  justify  his  ways, 
When  he  had  ta'en  to  drinking. 

He  always  did  his  work  by  "  rule,** 
But  drank  rum  without  measure, 

The  only  variance  he  could  see 
Between  his  work  and  leisure. 

"Coins  "  had  he  always  "in  the  bank," 

But  seldom  in  his  pocket ; 
So  when  he  journeyed  for  his  health, 

He  always  had  to  walk  it. 

He  ever  had  a  stick  in  hand 

So  far  as  we  are  knowing, 
As  well  when  he  was  at  a  "  stand," 

As  when  a  journey  going. 

He  wicked  grew  extremely  fast, 

Yet  with  religious  bias, 
Whene'er  he  "  knocked  a  handful  down," 

He  straitway  became  pious. 

He  "  set  in  boxes  "  when  at  work, 

But  when,  to  see  Othello, 
He  went  to  play,  down  in  the  pit 

Did  sit  this  honest  fellow. 

He  was  a  Christian  in  belief, 

Excelled  perhaps  by  no  man, 
His  printed  faith  was  Protestant, 

His  printed  works  were  "  Roman." 

In  politics  his  words  and  acts 

Composed  a  curious  tissue  ; 
He  preached  hard  money,  yet  he  toiled 

To  make  the  "paper  issue." 

His  nose  was  "  Roman,"  and  his  teeth 
Wi-re  "pearl,"  such  was  their  whiteness; 

His  eyes,  ah !  they  were  "  nonpareil," 
Unrivaled  in  their  brightness. 

One  day  he  "  wet  his  form,"  alas ! 

Too  much,  and  it  was  "shattered;" 
He  fell  down  stairs,  and  sad  to  say 

His  "bold-face"  it  was  "battered." 


His  "form"  was  laid  upon  the  "bed," 
Nor  "monk"  nor  "friar"  with  blessing, 

Was  where  the  printer  dying  lay 

His  latest  "white-sheets"  "pressing." 

He  "marked  his  errors,"  and  he  prayed 
For  grace  by  Heaven  directed, 

Repentance  came,  and  we  believe, 
His  "  matter  was  corrected." 


LITTLE  WILLIE. 

THOU  art  cradled  in  a  slumber  which  no 

lullaby  can  know ; 
They  have  laid  thee,  darling  Willie,  down 

to  sleep  beneath  the  snow. 
Sunny   eyes   forever   darkened,   prattling 

tongue  forever  still, 
Vacant  place  in  home's  sad  circle  which 

the  world  can  never  fill. 
Of  the  love  which  from  the  present  lifts  a 

weary  weight  of  woe — 
Of  the  hope  which  makes  the  future  with 

divinest  radiance  glow — 
Of  purest  joy — of  life  itself — 'twere  sad, 

indeed,  to  say 
How  much  of  all,  lost  Willie !  has  passed 

with  thee  away. 
Ah !  did  we  say,  lost  Willie  ! — not  lost,  but 

gone  before; 

The  winged  throng  of  cherubim — the  ran 
somed,  who  adore — 
The  deathless  ones — the  sanctified,  beyond 

the  river  cold, 
Have  welcomed  with  a  love  divine,  the 

larnbkin  from  our  fold. 
We  miss  thee,  but  we  mourn  thee  not : 

beatitude  is  thine ! 

Fruition  of  the  Christian  Hope,  the  Chris 
tian  Faith  divine ; 
For  hath  not  the  Redeemer  said,  that  'tis 

of  such  as  thee 
The    Kingdom    of    the   Blessed    through 

eternity  shall  be ! 


MARY   A.  FOSTER. 


MARY  A.  FOSTER—"  Mary  Neville  " — was  born  on  the  seventeenth  of  November, 
1823,  in  a  quiet  English  town  near  the  famous  University  of  Oxford.  Her  ancestors 
on  both  sides  were  of  high  respectability,  and  those  of  her  paternal  grandfather  had 
lived  and  died,  for  many  generations,  in  the  neighborhood.  There  too  the  Nevilles, 
also  progenitors,  had  resided  many  years.  "Mary  Neville's"  father  was  a  man  of 
some  note  in  the  community,  and  was  much  respected ;  her  deceased  mother,  Eliza 
beth  Bright,  a  woman  of  remarkable  beauty,  grace  and  intelligence.  In  1840,  having 
had  reverses  of  fortune,  they  removed  to  London,  changing  their  rural  life  for  the 
busy  hum  of  the  great  city.  Several  sons  had  attained  to  manhood,  and  the  parents 
were,  with  great  difficulty,  persuaded  by  them  to  emigrate  to  the  United  States.  They 
went  first  to  Michigan  with  the  intention  of  buying  land,  but  abandoning  that  idea 
resided  for  two  years  in  Detroit.  The  family  then  removed  to  Cincinnati,  and  finally 
to  Columbus,  Ohio. 

"  Mary  Neville's  "  prose  compositions  are  quite  equal  to  her  poems.  In  the  style  and 
sentiment  which  make  the  charm  of  epistolary  writing,  she  excels.  She  assumed  the 
ancestral  name  of  "Neville"  in  commemoration  of  the  fallen  greatness  of  that  ancient 
family  once  so  renowned  in  English  history. 

Miss  Foster  has  been,  for  six  or  seven  years,  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Cincin 
nati  Gazette,  the  Cincinnati  Commercial,  and  the  Ohio  Statesman. 


HYMN  TO  THE  STARS. 


YE  countless  orbs  that  shine  upon  us  night- 

iy, 

Serene  and  silent  teachers  from  afar, 
Fain  would  I  read  your  lesson  well  and 
rightly, 

No  sentence  mar  ! 

Ages  on  ages,  in  unvarying  splendor, 
Have  ye  not  preached,  all  eloquent  and 

still, 
The  sermon,  that  our  hearts  unaptly  ren 


der, 

Yield  to  His  will? 

29 


Ye  shone  as  calmly,  in  the  by-gone  ages, 
On  the  Chaldean,  with  his  eager  eye, 
Who  sought   to  read   your   mystic,  holy 
pages, 

And  read  awry. 

Ah  me  !  fore-guessing  not  your  mightier 


He  sought  man's  destiny  in  your  bright 

gleams, 

And  turned  to  nothing  but  an  earthly  story, 
Your  warning  beams. 

Do  we  more  truly  learn  your  wondrous 

message, 
Ye  host  of  witnesses,  with  voiceless  cry? 


(449) 


4")0 


MARY    A.    FOSTER. 


[1850-60. 


Do  we  essay,  or  comprehend  its  presage, 
Or  even  try  ? 

Ye  mighty  forces  that  through  space  im 
pelling, 
From  the  first  hour  your  equal  course 

was  set, 

Have  kept  upon  your  way,  in  silence  tell 
ing 

"  He  holds  us  yet ! " 

What  are  your  records,  so  serenely  closed, 
As  down  on  us  ye  smile,  tranquil  and 

fair, 

Ye  worlds  that  seem  to  lovliness  reposed, 
All  soft  and  rare  ! 

We  cannot  open ;  but  your  priceless  dower 

To  us,  ye  givers  bountiful  and  high! 
Is  it  not  surety  of  the  love  and  power 
Of  Him  anigh  ? 

Ye    speechless    messengers!     your    task 

august, 
Alike  to  worlds   and   ages   hath   been 

done, 

Ye  orators  sublime  of  peace  and  trust 
In  the  all-guiding  One ! 

Not  audibly  ye  speak,  consolers  holy, 

But  in  unuttered  tones,  perpetual,  say, 
"  Fear  not !  He  leads  you  o'er  the  rough 
heights  slowly 
Upward,  away ! " 

Sages,  what  wisdom  do  ye  not  inculcate  ? 
Patient  and  tireless,  with  your  unsolvec 

drift! 

Again  the  theme  of  grandeur  teach,  pro 
mulgate, 

Till  the  vail  lift ! 

Poets  and  singers,  who  attune  your  num 

bers 
To  the  vast  universe  in  lofty  swell, 


Breathe  on  our  ears  awhile  your  strain  of 
wonders, 

Your  secrets  tell. 

Oh !  stars,  incite  us  with  your  greatness, 

soundless, 
Till  we  eschew  all  thoughts  and  actions 

low, 

Aspiring  to  ye  and  your  Maker  boundless, 
Even  below. 


SUMMER. 

OVER  the  lake  and  down  the  rippling  river, 
The  chasing  sun-beams  softly  dance  and 

play, 
And  strike    the    waters    with   a    shining 

quiver, 
Sent  from  the  radiant  bow  of  golden  day. 

Lightly  the  breezes  with  the  leaves  are 

playing, 
All  perfumed  with  the  rare  and  odorous 

smell 
Of  the  rich  fruits,  that  on  the  branches 

swaying, 

Woo  the  soft  air  with  many  a  fragrant 
spell. 

And  bending  softly  'neath  the  enamored 

gaze 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with  blushes  bright 

and  rare, 

The  flowers  droop  gently  in  a  sweet  amaze, 
As  some  fond  maid  that  drops  her  eye 
lids  fair. 

But  joyously  look  up  the  teeming  fields 
And  greet  the  bridegroom  sun  with  hap 
py  glance, 

And  laughing,  to  his  ardent  kisses  yield 
Till  the  ripe  crops  begin  to  wave  and 
dance. 


1850-60.] 


MARY    A.   FOSTER. 


451 


Green  are  the  woods  and  green  the  grace 
ful  grasses, 
Yet  shrinking  at   the  midday's  burning 

face, 
But  when  the  night  dew  o'er  the  dry  earth 

passes, 
Reviving  with  a  new  and  sparkling  grace. 

The  many-tinted  butterfly  betimes 

Bestirs  himself,  upon  bright  easy  wing, 
And  wantons  gaily  with  the  flowers  and 

vines 

Sucking  their  sweetness  with  an  amor 
ous  cling. 

And  here  and  there,  about  the  forest  flit 
ting, 

Their  colors  glancing  in  the  falling  rays, 
Or  on  the  lightsome  boughs,  in  love  pairs 

sitting, 

The  brilliant  birds  rejoice  in  summer 
days. 

But  who  are  they  upon  the  hill-side  steal 
ing* 
With  steps  so  slow,  and  pauses  oft  and 

long, 

Resting  anon,  while  through  the  trees  re 
vealing 

The  sun  just  lights  their  bended  heads 
upon? 

And  rests  upon  the  maiden's  waving  hair, 
And  shines  upon   her  white  and   tiny 
hand 

As  up  she  raises  it,  with  pretext  fair, 
To  ask  or  answer  to  some  fond  demand. 

Summer   upon   the    earth   and   with   the 

maiden, 
For  she  beloved  was   and  she  dearly 

loved, 

And  with  its  wealth  of  joy  all  richly  laden, 
Her  heart  gave  out  the  blossom  and  the 
bud. 


Summer  upon  the  hills  and  through  the 

valleys ! 
Summer  upon    the  mountains  and  the 

streams ! 

See  how  the  glad  bird  on  the  pine-top  ral 
lies, 
And  never  of  the  chilly  winter  dreams. 

He  sings  of  love  in  gayest,  gladdest  mea 
sure, 

"While  mute,  the  lovers  listen  in  delight, 
Then  whisper  in  a  rapt  and  silent  pleasure, 
"  Summer  is  here — no  winter  and  no 
night!" 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD  OF  TRUTH. 

BE  true,  be  strong,  the  battle  rings  around, 
The  forms  of   fallen    warriors  strew  the 

ground ; 

Martyrs  and  victors,  slain,  but  not  to  die, 
They  give  to  us  the  noble  rallying  cry, 
Be  true  to  death  and  more. 

No  fiery  charger  shakes  the  quivering  sod, 
The  marshaled  forces  are   the  soul   and 

God; 

Nature  and  right  'gainst  error  fierce  at  bay, 

The  powers  immortal  yield  not  but  delay — 

Eternal  Truth  can  wait. 

No  bannered  host  does  mighty  Truth  dis 
play, 

No  armies  drawn  in  serried  strong  array  ; 

But  solitary  warriors  with  her  shield 

And  shining  sword,  made  ready  for  the 
field; 

These,  and  no  more. 

Thus   to    the   field   against   the   phalanx 

strong, 
Error's  great  army  drawn  in  columns  long, 


MARY    A.   FOSTER. 


[1850-60. 


Countless,    unnumbered,    bristling   to    the 

front 
With   motley    armor   and   with   clanging 

trump, 

Victory  is  theirs  to-day. 

But  whose  to-morrow,  when  with  sword  in 
rest, 

The  silent  soldiers  pass  the  solemn  quest  ? 

The  inquest  of  the  future,  when  the  hours 

Clear  and  impartial,  call  the  warring  pow 
ers 

To  judgment  and  to  sentence. 

And  who  is  worthy  of  the  tested  shield, 
The  proven  sword,  the  arms  that  cannot 

yield? 

They,  and  they  only,  who  forswearing  all, 
Present  and  future  at  the  battle  call, 
Seek  God  alone  and  right. 

For  none  but  such  could  dare  so  dread  a 

strife, 

Where  victory  waits  not  upon  hope  or  life ; 
But  dimly  gleams  remotedly  and  afar, 
When  with  the  dead  its  fated  champions 

are. 

But  so  to  die,  is  life. 

'Twas  here  the  sons  of  science  strove  and 

fell, 

How  nobly  let  ourselves  and  children  tell ; 
Facing  the  world's  stern  ignorance  they 

fought, 
Contending    aidless,   inch    by    inch,   and 

bought 

Our  light  with  worse  than  death. 

'Twas  here  the  patriots,  earnest  of  their 

time, 
Invoked  the  children  of   their  race  and 

clime 

So  oft  in  vain  to  freedom ;  'here  they  led 
Where  few  would  follow,  for  no  victor's 

tread 

Awakes  the  silent  field. 


'Twas  here  the  sages,  prophets  of  our  race, 
Piercing   the   shadowy   future  sought   to 

trace 
The  heights  and  depths  of  knowing,  and 

thus  kept 
Watch  on  the  outposts  while  the  nations 

slept 

Untroubled  sleep,  but  dark. 

Noble  and  worthy  then  to  perish  here, 
Though  seeming  vanquished  in  the  combat 

sere  ; 

The  holocaust  to  duty  bravely  done, 
The  conflict  waged  till  death,  though  still 

unwon, 

And  ages  keep  the  rest. 


SONG. 

THOUGH  the  warm  sunlight  of  thy  brow 

By  sorrow's  blight  is  shaded ; 
Not  from  my  heart,  all  faithful  now. 

The  light  of  love  hath  faded  ; 
No,  dearer  far  thou  art  to  me, 

With  tears  alone  for  dower, 
Than  when  in  beauty's  matchless  glee 

Thou  shon'st,  a  starry  power. 

When  triumph,  in  a  brilliant  shower 

Around  thee  dazzling  fell, 
I  would  not  ask  so  bright  a  flower 

In  my  poor  heart  to  dwell. 
But  now  when  grief  hathdimm'd  thy  charms 

And  summer  friends  have  fled, 
Come — rest  within  these  loving  arms 

Thy  weary,  drooping  head. 

And  I  will  be  to  thee  a  sun 

To  dry  away  thy  tears, 
And  chase  from  thee,  my  cherished  one, 

All  sad  and  gloomy  fears  ; 
And  I  will  wear  thee  in  my  heart, 

As  some  rare,  priceless  gem, 
And  round  thee  love  and  bliss  shall  dart 

Their  radiant  light  again. 


ISAAC    H.  JULIAN. 


ISAAC  H.  JULIAN,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  pioneers  of  Indiana — who  emigrated 
from  North  Carolina  in  the  year  1807 — was  born  in  Wayne  county,  in  that  State,  June 
nineteenth,  1823.  His  father  died  when  he  was  an  infant.  Isaac  enjoyed  such  com 
mon  school  advantages  as  were  available  to  a  boy  who  worked  on  a  farm.  When  he 
was  twenty-five  years  of  age  he  turned  his  attention  from  agriculture  to  the  study  of 
law.  Since  that  time  he  has  written  much  in  prose  and  verse,  for  the  newspapers  of 
Indiana,  and  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  National  Era  and  to  The  Genius  of  the 
West.  In  October,  1857,  he  published,  at  Richmond,  an  interesting  pamphlet  on 
"  The  History  of  the  Whitewater  Valley."  Mr.  Julian  is  now  editor  of  The  True 
Republican,  Centerville,  Indiana. 


BOONE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.* 

BRIGHT  waved  thy  woods,  Kentucky, 

In  the  Summer's  sunset  glow  ; 
Enamored  evening  smiled  upon 

The  scene  outspread  below ; 
Nature's  Eden,  wild,  magnificent, 

Fresh  from  her  hand  was  there ; 
Even  angels  might  admiring  gaze 

Upon  a  scene  so  fair. 

Like  a  mighty  temple,  dark  and  old, 
Waved  the  dim  wilderness  ; 

God's  ancient  music  spoke  his  praise 
Amid  the  spreading  trees. 


*  In  one  of  Boone's  visits  to  Kentucky,  of  all  the  em 
igrating  party,  only  he  and  his  brother  reached  their  des 
tination.  Soon  after,  it  was  found  necessary  for  the  latter 
to  return  to  the  settlements  for  supplies,  and  Daniel  Boone 
was  left  alone  in  the  wilderness,  seven  hundred  miles  from 
the  nearest  white  settlement,  and  spent  almost  three 
months  in  this  solitary  mode  of  life,  amusing  himself  by 
hunting  and  exploring  expeditions.  He  is  supposed  to 
have  been  the  only  white  man  at  that  time  west  of  the 
Alleghanies.— Vide  Timothy  Flint's  Life  of  Boone,  p.  62, 
et  seq. 

(453) 


By  the  dark  and  lonely  rivers, 
Flowing  on  in  light  and  shade, 

The  red  man  and  his  shaggy  train, 
In  sole  dominion  strayed. 

From  the  forest's  deep  recesses, 

Whence  curls  that  wreath  of  smoke  ? 
By  what  startling  crack  of  rifle 

Are  the    slumbering  echoes  woke  ? 
For  twice  two  score  of  nights  and  days, 

The  observant  savage  race 
Have  marked,  with  wonder  and  with  fear, 

The  dreadful  stranger's  trace. 

He  has  reared  his  lodge  among  them, 

He  has  hunted  far  and  wide — 
Alone  in  the  vast  wilderness, 

To  range  it  is  his  pride  ! 
Now  at  nightfall  by  his  cabin  door 

He  marks  the  stars  appear — 
His  heart  is  filled  with  home-bred  joy — 

He  smiles  at  thought  of  fear ! 


Woe  to  your  fair  dominion, 
Woe  to  your  day  of  fame, 


-l.-.l                                                      ISAAC    H.    JULIAN.                                             [1850-60. 

Ye  dusky  dwellers  of  the  woods  ! 

When,  where  yon  smoke-steed  courses, 

Your  glory's  but  a  name  : 

And  tugs  at  his  fiery  rein, 

Awaken  from  your  slumbers, 

The  dim  aisles  of  the  forest 

Awake  or  perish  all  — 

Knew  ne'er  a  ruder  strain, 

The  foe  is  on  your  hunting-grounds, 

The  herald  of  your  fall  ! 

Than  the  wild  bird's  merry  carol, 

Or  the  wild  deer's  stealthy  tread  ; 

In  vain  —  the  tide  of  life  flows  in 

While  leaped  the  sportive  squirrel 

On  the  daring  hunter's  track, 

'Neath  the  green  arch  overhead. 

And  not  the  Indian's  high  emprise 

Sunk  'neath  the  ax  of  the  woodman, 

Can  turn  the  current  back. 

That  forest  no  longer  waves  ; 

Fierce  battled  he  with  force  and  fraud, 

Though  a  pioneer  here  and  there  lingers 

Like  a  savage  beast  at  bay  — 

Yet,  'mid  his  fellows'  graves. 

But  his  star  of  empire  went  down 

In  many  a  bloody  fray. 

And  I  think  how  this  chain  of  iron 

Ere  long  all  our  country  shall  bind, 

Bright  wave  thy  fields,  Kentucky, 

And  waft  its  life  and  its  commerce 

In  graceful  culture  now  ; 

More  swift  than  the  lagging  wind  ; 

The  red  man,  like  thy  mighty  woods, 

Aye,  away  to  the  far-distant  sunset 

Has  seen  his  glory  bow. 

'Twill  point  the  unerring  line, 

And  by  the  dark  Missouri, 

Over  mountain  and  valley, 

The  lone  hunter  passed  to  rest  — 

To  the  vast  Pacific's  brine. 

Till  him  thy  "  late  remorse  "  called  home 

To  slumber  on  thy  breast.* 

How  the  fire-steed  will  hasten, 

Ever  away  —  away  — 

Over  the  boundless  prairies, 

—  •  — 

Where  the  elk  and  bison  stray  — 

Over  the  wandering  rivers  — 

Through  proud  States  yet  to  be  — 

THE  TRUE  PACIFIC  LINE. 

And  through  the  mountain  passes, 

'Mm  the  evening  twilight  gathering, 

Prone  to  the  Western  Sea. 

O'er  my  native  Western  plain, 

I  mark  the  fierce  careering 

And  while  yet  the  startled  echoes 

O 

Of  the  far-sounding  railway  train  ; 
Shrieking  and  thundering  and  clanging, 
It  startles  the  rural  scene, 

Are  sounding  their  terror  back, 
How  the  wide  world's  wealth  and  empire 
Shall  hasten  on  the  track  : 

Like  the  storm-god's  sudden  appearing 
On  a  summer  eve  serene. 

0,  the  panoramic  ages 
Shall  pale  their  storied  power  ; 

And  if  Mammon  is  to  rule  the  earth, 

As  I  sit  and  gaze,  and  listen 

Now  comes  his  crowning  hour  ! 

To  the  yet  unwonted  sound, 

Busy  Fancy  backward  wanders 

But  I  seem  to  hear  a  murmur, 

To  the  Past's  enchanted  ground  ; 

On  the  breath  of  evening  cast, 

From  the  bright,  yet  shadowy  Future, 

*  It  will  be  generally  recollected,  that  a  few  years  since 

From  the  melancholy  Past  ; 

the  remains  of  Daniel  Boone  and  his  wife  were  removed 
from  Missouri  to  Kentucky,  and  recommitted  to  the  earth 

A  "  still,  small  voice  "  —  I  hear  it 

with  distinguished  funeral  solemnities. 

Like  gentle  music  fall  — 

1850-60.] 


ISAAC    H.    JULIAN. 


455 


"  One  soul  outweighs  the  spoil  of  worlds, 
To  the  Ruler  over  all." 

Then  while  ye  pile  Wealth's  trophies 

On  plain  and  hill  and  glen, 
Heed  well  that  greater  treasure — 

A  race  of  high-souled  men; 
Clear  heads  and  hearts  of  purity, 

The  glory  of  a  State, 
The  beauty  of  the  passing  hour, 

Assuring  prosperous  fate. 

Then  lay  the  track  of  Progress 

Through  the  broad  realms  of  Mind ! 
Speed  on  the  cars  of  Light  and  Truth, 

To  gladden  human  kind ! 
Through  the  howling  wastes  of  Ignorance, 

Through  Pride's  deceitful  show, 
With  the  banner  of  Salvation, 

Bid  the  swift-winged  blessing  go ! 

Thus  shall  Heaven's  healing  dews  descend 

On  the  Nation's  fevered  heart, 
And  sanctify  the  vital  tides 

That  nourish  every  part; 
And,  as  advancing  empire 

Looks  to  the  Western  Sea, 
The  Pacific  of  our  Future 

Shall  spread  infinitely ! 


TO  THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  WEST. 

0  GENIUS  of  "  my  own,  my  native  land !" 
Majestic,  glorious  presence  of  my  dreams, 

1  own  the  impulse  of  thy  guiding  hand, 

I    hail  the    light    upon   thy  brow  that 

gleams, 
Dear  and  familiar  as  the  sun's  bright 

beams ! 


For  thou  didst  smile  upon  my  life's  first 

dawn, 

A  child,  lone-wandering  by  thy  quiet 
streams, 

Far  from  the  vain  and  noisy  crowd  with 
drawn, 

Thy  partial  glance  didst  mark  and  seal  me 
as  thine  own. 

Thou  bad'st  me  tune  with  joy  my  rustic 

reed, 
While  smiling  Love  and  Fancy  led  the 

strain ; 

And  first  my  willing  voice,  as  thou  decreed, 
Essayed  to  sing  the  glories  of  thy  reign. 
Since,  wandering  wide  out  o'er  thy  broad 

domain, 
Thy  presence  still  has  cheered  me  in  the 

way, 
And  'mid  those  vaster  scenes,  didst  thou 

again 

Inspire  a  higher  and  a  sadder  lay 
Than  that  of  sportive  Love,  to  crown  my 
manhood's  day — 

A  lay  of  Truth,  inscribed  unto  my  kind, 
Their  joys  and  griefs,  their  liberties  and 

wrongs ; 

The  spirit  that  would  every  chain  unbind, 
By  thee  invoked,  inspired  my  later 

songs 
With   stern  rebuke  of  lying  pens  and 

tongues. 

O  still  be  with  me,  Genius  of  the  West ! 
And  grant  the  boon  for  which  my  spirit 

longs — 
To  weave  the  verse  which  thou  shalt  deem 

the  best, 

Ere  'neath  my  natal  soil,  I  peaceful  pass 
to  rest ! 


WILLIAM   H.   BTJSHNELL. 


WILLIAM  H.  BUSHNELL  was  born  in  the  city  of  Hudson,  New  York,  on  the  fourth 
day  of  June,  1823,  and  was  educated  at  the  University  of  the  city  of  New  York.  He 
was  first  announced  as  a  poet  on  the  anniversary  of  Washington's  birth-day,  in  the 
year  1843,  when  he  delivered  a  poem  entitled  "  Knowledge  is  Power  "  before  the 
Junior  Lyceum  of  Chicago,  Illinois.  He  was  then  regularly  occupied  as  a  Civil  En 
gineer,  but  for  pastime  contributed  editorials  to  the  Gem  of  the  Prairie,  a  sprightly 
literary  weekly  paper.  He  was  afterward  editor  of  the  Democratic  Advocate,  and  for 
a  brief  period  was  one  of  the  editors  and  publishers  of  the  Dollar  Newspaper  at 
Chicago. 

Mr.  Bushnell  has  written  graphic  sketches  of  Indian  life  under  the  pseudonym  of 
FRANK  WEBBER,  and  is  the  author  of  a  novel  entitled  "  Prairie  Fire."  He  contin 
ues  to  labor  as  a  Civil  Engineer,  though  he  is  a  regular  contributor  to  several  Illinois 
journals,  and  is  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Chicago  Leader. 


FLOATING  DOWN  THE  TIDE. 

SWIFT  adown  the  silent  river, 

Down  the  ebbing  tide  of  Time, 
From  where  first  the  sunrays  quiver 

O'er  a  new  heart's  waking  chime — 
O'er  a  pulse  from  chaos  beating, 

With  its  mystic  flow  of  pride, 
We  are  drifting — ever  drifting, 

And  are  floating  down  the  tide. 

On  the  unknown  shore  of  birth-land 

Like  a  tiny  pebble  rolled, 
Wreathed  with  flowers  of  love  and  beauty, 

Laden  deep  with  hopes  untold ; 
Rests  life's  bark  a  moment  only 

Ere  the  zephyr  seeks  its  side, 
And  it  drifts  a  waif— drifts  slowly, 

And  is  floating  down  the  tide. 

From  the  flowers  of  glorious  promise 
That  have  ever  fringed  the  shore, 

Where  the  clay  of  life  is  quickened, 
Turns  the  bark  foreverrnore  ! 


Riding  gently  o'er  the  wavelets — 
Like  a  feather  seems  to  glide, 

Till  the  fresh'ning  winds  caress  it, 
And  it  hastens  down  the  tide. 

Then  each  sail  youth  spreads  with  gladness, 

Thinking  naught  of  storm  or  wreck, 
And  bright  love  and  beauty  only 

Are  the  watch  upon  the  deck ; 
As  the  prow  the  rising  billows 

Dashes  foam  be-gemm'd  aside, 
And  the  storm,  unnoticed  gathers 

As  it  floats  adown  the  tide. 

Now  the  wary  eye  of  manhood, 

All  in  vain,  may  trim  the  sail, 
And  hope's  anchor  alone  remaineth, 

As  a  succor  from  the  gale — 
Wilder  still  the  fleecy  billows 

That  the  shattered  bark  must  ride, 
As  it  dashes — madly  dashes, 

And  floats  helpless  down  the  tide. 


(456) 


185U-W).] 


WILLIAM    H.    BUSHNELL. 


45' 


Then  old  age,  with  trembling  fingers, 

No  more  strives  to  check  its  way, 
But  low  kneeling,  seeks  to  fathom 

The  wild,  drifting,  blinding  spray ; 
Seeks  to  gaze  through  gloom  on  Heaven, 

On  the  east-born  star  to  guide 
His  lone  bark,  that  mastless,  helmless, 

Sinking,  floats  adown  the  tide. 

Nears  the  bark,  death's  fatal  maelstrom — 

Through  each  open  seam  the  wave 
Boils  resistless,  rushes,  bubbles, 

Till  it  sinks  in  ocean  grave : 
Vain  is  manhood,  youth  or  beauty, 

Vain  is  wealth,  or  love,  or  pride — 
Life's  frail  bark  is  ever  floating, 

Floating  swiftly  down  the  tide ! 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  PRESS. 

A    SONG-   for    the    Press!    the   Printing 

Press! 

That  has  ruled  the  world  alone, 
Since  the  finger  of  God  first  graved  His 

laws 

On  the  tablet  of  senseless  stone ; 
Since  a  spark  of  his  wisdom  downward 

sent 

Woke  the  slumbering  thought  to  birth, 
And  the  Press,  as  a  meteor,  flashed  thro' 

the  gloom, — 
The  darkness  that  lower'd  o'er  earth. 

A  song  for  the  Press  ! — more  potent  far 

Than  the  fiat  of  crowned  king — 
Than  the  cohorts  of  war — than  the  steel- 
clad  men 

That  the  mightiest  can  bring. 
Kingdoms,  and  tower,  and  palace  wall, 

That  have  braved  a  century's  might, 
Crumble  in  ruin,  and  totter  and  fall, 

When  the  Press  wakes  the  giant  Right, 


A   song   for   the   Press — the   lever   long 
sought 

The  world  to  sway,  in  times  olden — 
To  check  the  power  of  Oppression's  hand — 

Break  the  rule  of  the  scepter  golden ; 
Pierce   the   gloom   of  the   dungeon — the 
captive  free, 

Rive  oak  door  and  iron  rod, 
And  send  broadcast  o'er  a  sin-bound  world 

The  words  of  a  living  God! 

A  song   for   the  Press — the  Angel   that 
lines, 

In  light  on  its  record  page, 
Each   glorious   thought,   and   each   noble 
deed — 

Each  act  of  the  passing  age : 
The  historian's  pen,  and  the  poet's  wand — 

Each  triumph — each  God-born  rhyme — 
Is  recorded  there,  and  forever  lives, 

Defying  the  touch  of  Time  ! 

A  song  for  the  Press !     Like  the  armed 

men 

That  rushed  o'er  Rome's  ivy'd  wall, 
When   Liberty  swayed  and  trampled  in 

dust 

Cassar's  pride  and  judgment  hall ; 
So   its    silent   step  wakes  the   down-trod 

one, 

'Mid  his  thraldom,  his  fear  and  gloom, 
And  thunders  in  wrath  round  the  crowned 

king, 
Foretelling  of  death  and  of  doom ! 

A  song  for  the  Press — the  east-born  star ! 

Of  religion — of  liberty — power — 
Untrameled   by   wealth,  by   passion   un 
swayed, 

'Tis  the  index — the  scribe  of  each  hour; 
And  still   shall  remain — still   the  slender 

type 

Shall  "  click,"  and  all  nations  bless  ; 
And   the    last   star  from  earth  that  ever 

fades  out 
Be  the  God-model'd  Printing  Press ! 


WILLIAM   DENTON. 


WILLIAM  DENTON,  though  a  native  of  England,  and  an  emigrant  to  America  after 
he  had  attained  manhood,  may  properly  be  classed  among  the  writers  of  the  West, 
because  his  literary  life  was  developed  in  Ohio.  He  was  born  at  Darlington,  Durham 
county,  England,  in  the  year  1823.  He  went  to  an  English  Penny  School  for  several 
year.-,  and  when  nineteen  years  old  attended  a  Normal  School  at  London  for  six 
months.  Since  his  residence  in  the  West  he  has  been  a  common  school  teacher  and 
Lecturer.  In  1856  he  published  a  small  volume  of  Poems*  at  Dayton,  Ohio,  a  second 
edition  of  which  was  issued  at  Cleveland  in  1860.  He  invokes  the  Muses  chiefly  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  the  charm  of  rhythm  to  radical  thoughts  on  "vexed  questions;" 
rarely  for  the  description  of  natural  objects,  or  for  the  expression  of  passion  or  im 
pulse. 


THOUGHTS. 

THOUGHTS,  gentle  thoughts,  are  springing 

like  the  flowers  in  smiling  May  ; 
Bright  earth-stars,  fair  and  golden,  with  a 

blessing  in  each  ray ; 
They  gladden  childhood  in  its  dance  along 

life's  verdant  lanes, 
And  soothe  the  years  of  manhood,  in  its 

time  of  toils  and  pains ; 
No  desert  soul  so  barren,  but  they  beautify 

the  spot ; 
And  where  they  fail  to  germinate,  there 

God  himself  is  not. 

Thoughts,  holy  thoughts,  like  stars   arise, 

when  night  enwraps  the  soul ; 
Or   beacon    lights    above    the    sea,    when 

waves  of  sorrow  roll ; 
They  close  the  door  on  vanity,  they  shut 

out  lust  and  pride, 
Like  fairest  angels,  wandering  forever  at 

our  side ; 


To  ev'ry  soul  of  earth,  they  give  a  seraph's 

burning  wings, 
And  far  above  the  gates  of  morn,  she  soars 


aloft  and  sings. 


Thoughts,  dreadful  thoughts,  at  midnight 
come,  the  soul  a  drifting  wreck ; 

Their  hurried  footsteps  pacing  up  and 
down  the  sounding  deck ; 

When  dark  misdeeds  within  the  hold, 
weigh  down  the  ship  like  lead — 

The  creaking  timbers  groaning  like  the 
ghosts  of  troubled  dead, 

While  gaping  waves  around  it  for  posses 
sion  seem  to  fight ; 

From  thoughts  like  these,  God  save  us,  in 
the  lonely  hour  of  night! 

Thoughts  come  like  Spanish  galleons,  with 

treasures  o'er  the  sea, 
With  richest  jewels  freighted ;  priceless 

presents  for  the  free  : 
Each  soul  is  on  the  tip-toe,  when  their 

gallants  touch  the  sky, 


*  Poems  for  Reformers.     By  William  Denton.     Second  edition,  printed  for  the  author,  at  the  "  Vanguard  "  office, 
Cleveland,  Ohio,  1860.     12mo,  pp.  118. 

(  458  ) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    DENTON. 


459 


And  hearts  with  high  hopes  laden,  gree 
those  vessels  drawing  nigh : 

Each  noble  ship  be  favored,  then,  its  des 
tined  port  to  win, 

And  Heaven's  breath  safe  waft  it,  with  it, 
precious  cargo  in. 

Thoughts  come  like  blazing  comets,  'thwar 
the  gloomy  ev'ning  sky, 

And  wonder-stricken  millions  look  witl 
terror  up  on  high ; 

They  dread  lest  ev'ry  fabric,  on  this  God 
made  earth,  should  fall ; 

Lest  comet  so  portentous  should  destroy 
and  ruin  all, 

But  thoughts,  too,  have  their  orbit,  all  ec 
centric  though  they  look; 

No  waver  in  their  burning  track,  unwritten 
in  the  book. 

Thoughts  come  like  avalanches,  from  the 
lofty  mountain  brow ; 

The  cedars,  firm  and  mighty,  with  their 
sturdy  branches  bow ; 

The  rocky,  moss-grown  castles  fall,  no  tur 
rets  left  unthrown, 

While  loud  above  the  thundering,  comes 
Superstition's  groan. 

All  hoary-headed  wrongs  are  swept,  like 
feathers  on  the  blast, 

Into  oblivion's  deepest  gulf,  where  sleeps 
"  the  worn-out  past." 

Thoughts  come  like  shocks  electric,  from 

the  battery  of  Truth. 
To  strengthen  manhood's  nerves  of  steel, 

and  fire  the  pulse  of  youth ; 
They  wake  to  action  virtues  that  have  long 

been  left  to  sleep; 
And  stir  the    soul's  calm  fountain,  to  its 

silent,  slumb'ring  deep ; 
They  blast  each  growing  error,  with  their 

deadly  lightning  stroke, 
And  leave  its  stricken  carcass,  like  a  rifted 

mountain  oak. 


Thoughts  yoke  themselves  like  fiery  steeds, 

and  drag  the  world  along ; 
Woe  to  the  stumbling-blocks  that  would  its 

onward  march  prolong ! 
Vain     tyrants,    despots,    slaveocrats,    its 

course  ye  cannot  stay! 
Resistless  as  the  Universe,  it  moves  upon 

its  way. 
Dash    on,    brave   Thoughts,  in    storm   or 

shine,  in  day,  or  darkest  night! 
The  goal  we're  destined  yet  to  reach,  is 

Love,  and  Truth,  and  Right. 


THE  REAL  AND  THE  IDEAL. 

EVER  there  floats  before  the  real, 
The  bright  and  beautiful  ideal ; 
And  as  to  guide  the  sculptor's  hand, 
The  living  forms  of  beauty  stand, 
Till  from  the  rough-hewn  marble  starts 
A  thing  of  grace  in  all  its  parts — 

So,  ever  stands  before  the  soul, 
A  model,  beautiful  and  whole — 
The  perfect  man  that  each  should  be, 
Erect  in  true  integrity. 
Keep  this,  0  soul,  before  thy  sight, 
And  form  the  inward  man  aright! 


BLIND  WORKERS. 

As  the  polyp,  slowly  toiling, 

Builds  the  wondrous  coral  hills, 
Never  dreaming  of  the  office 

It  so  dexterously  fulfills  ; 
So  the  merchants  and  the  doctors, 

Cabmen,  barmen,  grub-worms  low, 
Lawyers,  parsons,  politicians 

Toil  and  moil,  but  never  know 
They  are  building  like  the  polyp, 

'Neath  the  dark  tumultuous  wave, 
Mansions  for  a  coming  people, 

Noble-hearted,  true  and  brave. 


CAROLINE   A.  CHAMBERLIN. 


Ix  the  year  1853,  Ward  and  Taylor,  booksellers  and  publishers,  Cincinnati,  printed 
a  volume  of  poems  by  Mrs.  C.  A.  Chamberlin,  which  was  reviewed  with  favor  by 
journalists  of  acknowledged  ability.  Mrs.  Chamberlin  had  been  for  several  years  a 
popular  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  newspapers.  When  her  volume  was  published, 
she  resided  with  her  husband  at  Oxford,  Ohio.  About  the  year  1858  they  emigrated 
to  California. 


THE  HIDDEN  LIFE. 

PALE  toiler,  with  the  brow  of  care, 

And  thoughtful,  anxious  eye 
Scarce  raised  to  note  yon  flow'rets  fair, 

Or  radiance  of  the  sky : 

Toilest  thou  for  gems,  whose  quenchless 
ray 

Lights  thy  bless'd  spirit's  shrine  ? 
Then,  what  thou  call'st  thine  own  to-day, 

To-morrow  still  calls  thine. 

Toil  as  becomes  thy  heavenly  birth, 
While  waves  of  time  shall  roll ; 

For  there's  no  poverty  on  earth, 
Like  that  within  the  soul. 

Turn  from  the  scenes  of  care  and  strife 

Which  ever  round  thee  rise, 
And  hold  in  thy  sweet  inward  life, 

Communion  with  the  skies. 

For  when  thou  yearn'st  for  wings,  to  be 

With  spirits  pure  in  heaven, 
Pure  spirits  will  come  down  to  thee, 

And  heaven  on  earth  be  given. 

For  oft  they  come  with  pitying  eyes, 

And  gentle,  noiseless  tread, 
The  links  between  us  and  the  skies — 

Our  loved  and  holy  dead. 


We  think  of  them  in  evening  hours, 
And  in  the  morn's  first  light ; 

We  link  their  memories  with  the  flowers, 
And  all  things  pure  and  bright. 

We  weep,  as  through  the  still  night  air 
We  gaze  on  some  loved  star ; 

Weep,  though  we  deem  them  seraphs  there, 
In  those  pure  homes  afar. 

We  call  them  from  the  realms  of  death, 

With  love  which  cannot  die, 
And  list  to  hear  a  word  or  breath — 

But  there  is  no  reply ! 

For  there  are  sounds  which  fall  alone 

Upon  the  spirit's  ear : 
We  must  be  like  the  loved  we  mourn, 

If  we  those  sounds  would  hear. 


THE  SONS  OF  ART. 

THE  spirit's  wreaths  alone  have  twined 

The  present  with  the  past ; 
And  the  influence  of  one  mighty  mind 

In  every  soul  is  cast ; 
And  though  their  forms  from  earth  have 
fled, 

The  glorious  Sons  of  Art, — 


(  460  ) 


1850-60.] 


CAROLINE    A .    CHAMBERLIN. 


461 


We  cannot  rank  those  with  the  dead, 
Who  of  our  lives  are  part. 

Let  the  stern  cannon  boom  his  fame, 

Who,  red  with  carnage,  dies  ; 
But  let  love's  holiest,  heavenly  flame, 

In  deathless  souls  arise, 
For  those  who,  with  seraphic  might, 

By  the  pale  night-lamp's  rays, 
Have  fought  the  holy  spirit-fight, 

Unheeding  gold  or  bays. 

He  is  not  in  thy  halls,  O  Death ! 

Amidst  forgotten  things, 
Who  took  the  water's  fiery  breath, 

And  wove  it  into  wings : 
Through  poverty  and  fearful  strife 

He  won  a  victory  brave ; 
And  praise,  that  should  have  crowned  his 
life, 

Wreathes  garlands  o'er  his  grave. 

Amidst  the  busy  city's  mass, 

Where  life  beats  full  and  strong, 
We  feel  his  influence  as  we  pass 

Among  the  motley  throng  ; 
On  sterile  height — in  bloom-clad  dell, 

Where  earth  a  home  can  give, — 
And  where  the  blue  waves  proudly  swell, 

His  name  for  aye  must  live  ! 

Wait   not  his   death,   thou   wreath,   thou 
lyre !  — 

His  life  thy  gifts  shed  o'er, 
Who  placed  the  lightning  on  the  wire, 

And  bid  space  be  no  more  ! 
Who  gave  thought  pinions,  as  the  wind 

Wafts  flower-seeds  o'er  earth's  face, 
And  closer  knit  the  bands  that  bind 

In  brotherhood  the  race. 

The  only  good,  the  only  true, 
Blessed,  ever  blessed,  they'll  be, 

Who've  still  some  solemn  work  to  do 
For  wronged  humanity ! 


Nor  shall  the  poet  ask  a  theme 

For  deep  and  burning  song, 
While,  mingling  with  his  loveliest  dream, 

Uprise  that  holy  throng. 


A  PICTURE. 

SHE  stole  upon  one  unaware, — 

As     sunbeams    through    the     cloud-rifts 

play  — 

And  ere  they'd  asked  if  she  was  fair, 
She'd  kissed  the  critic-spell  away ; 
With  step  as  falling  blossoms  mute, 
And  smile  caught  from  celestial  sphere — 
And  plaintive  voice,  like  dove  or  lute, 
She  waked  the  thought,  "  What  doth  she 

here  ?  " 

Too  swiftly  o'er  her  cheek's  pure  snow, 
For  health's   warm  flush,  the  rose   tinge 

flew  ; — 

Too  lightly  dawned — too  soon  to  go— 
And  left  that  cheek  too  pale  of  hue. 
A  sorrow,  beauteously  borne, 
As  earth  bears  twilight  on  her  face — 
As  holy  vesture  meekly  worn, 
Spoke  from  lip,  eye,  and  form  of  grace, 
Whose  every  movement  seemed  to  be 
Attuned  to  touching  melody. 
One  asks  not  why  the  flower  love  wakes, 
Blessed  in  the  spell  it  doth  impart — 
The  sweet  bird-minstrel  captive  takes 
The  soul — unquestioned  of  its  art; — 
The  star-beams  oft  the  heart  have  swayed, 
All  coldly  dead  to  sterner  power ; — 
And  heaven  in  her  the  charms  displayed, 
The  blended  force  of  bird,  star,  flower ; 
So  to  the  spirit's  depths  she  stole 
With  gentle,  yet  with  queenly  grace, 
And  throned  herself  within  the  soul, 
As  if  alone  her  rightful  place ; 
Yet  bound  she  not  that  soul  to  earth, 
Nor  filled  it  with  an  earthling's  love  ; — 
To  love  her,  it  must  feel  its  worth, — 
To  love  her  it  must  soar  above. 


462 


CAROLINE    A.    CHAM  BERLIN. 


[1850-60. 


A  spirit,  from  her  changeful  eye 
Looked  forth,  all  saintly,  mild  and  meek, 
Yet  proudly,  gloriously  high, 
Looked  forth — as  with  pure  souls  to  speak. 
That  look  the  lofty  trust  betrayed, 
Which  most  to  virtuous  deed  doth  stir — 
One  might  meet  scorn,  in  guilt  arrayed, 
Yet  could  not  make  her  judgment  err ! 
Who  light  of  woman's  worth  could  think, 
Who  for  himself  scarce  breathed  a  prayer — 
From    that   high   glance,  abashed,  would 

shrink, 

To  read  his  thought's  deep  falsehood  there. 
Her  life  was  what  the  many  teach 
Alone — in  lofty  sounding  lays, — 
It  chimed  with  seraph  song  or  speech — 
Itself  a  melody  of  praise. 
One  felt,  she  on  their  path  to  heaven, 
A  purely  tranquil  light  had  thrown  ; 
And  to  their  spirit's  harp  had  given 
One  more — perchance  its  sweetest  tone 


THE  SOUL'S  VISITANTS. 

WHAT  are  those  strange,  mysterious  things, 
Those  fleeting  ones  and  bright ; 

That  waken  thus  with  unseen  wings, 
The  spirit's  glimmering  light? 

They  come  when  earth  seems  dark  with 
woe, 

They  lift  the  vail  of  strife  ; 
They  come,  these  lovely  ones,  to  show 

The  life  within  the  life ! 

They  steal  the  cloud  of  sorrow, 

That  on  the  spirit  lies  ; 
And  hue  it  with  the  morrow, 

The  morrow  of  the  skies. 


They  come  like  beauteous  seraphs, 
And  brightly  glance  awhile, 

Adown  the  soul's  deep  waters ; 
Then  vanish  like  a  smile. 

These  voiceless  ones  and  lovely, 
In  song  I  would  them  twine  ; 

That  they  may  speak  to  other  hearts 
What  they  have  breathed  to  mine. 

But  in  the  world  of  language, 
They  have  no  home,  no  place ; 

A  beam  of  light  upon  the  soul 
They  leave — their  only  trace  ! 

Think'st  thou,  thou  know'st  the  poet, 
By  the  light  song  he  sings? 

The  loveliest  treasures  of  the  soul, 
Must  aye  be  hidden  things  ! 


TO  A  MOSS  PLANT. 

O  LITTLE  plant,  whose  home  is  made 
Deep  in  the  forest's  somber  shade, 
Why  hast  thou  o'er  my  soul  more  power 
Than  holds  each  beauteous  garden  flower  ? 

Why  shouldst  thou  be  so  dear  to  me, 
That  I  should  leave  the  rose  for  thee  ? — 
The  bright  carnation's  queenly  grace, 
To  gaze  upon  thy  pale,  meek  face  ? 

Is  it  because  thou  seem'st  the  care 
Of  Him  alone  who  placed  thee  there  ? 
While  lavish  wealth  and  love  unite 
To  shield  the  garden  plant  from  blight! 

Aye,  this  it  is,  and  more — thou  art 
The  type  of  many  a  noble  heart, 
That  bravely  bears  its  humble  fate, 
By  human  love  left  desolate ! 


WILLIAM   E.  GILMORE. 


WILLIAM  EDWARD  GILMORE  was  born  at  Chillicothe,  Ohio,  November  third, 
1824.  He  is  the  eldest  son  of  William  Y.  and  Mary  TifFm  Gilmore.  He  graduated 
at  Lane  Seminary,  near  Cincinnati,  in  1846,  and  in  December  of  that  year,  while 
reading  law  with  Oliver  Spencer  and  Richard  M.  Corwine,  was  married  to  Amanda, 
daughter  of  Samuel  and  Martha  Betts,  of  that  city.  He  began  the  practice  of  law 
in  Chillicothe,  in  1849,  and  is  now  a  prominent  member  of  the  Ross  county  bar.  Mr. 
Gilmore  was  a  contributor  to  the  Western  Quarterly  Review,  published  at  Cincinnati 
in  1849,  and  has  since  written  for  Graham's  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  the  Na 
tional  Era,  the  Scioto  Gazette,  and  the  Genius  of  the  West.  In  1854  and  1855  he 
was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Ancient  Metropolis,  a  daily  and  weekly  newspaper 
at  Chillicothe,  which  has  since  been  discontinued. 


DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  PRIESTHOOD  OF 
BAAL. 

THE  rising  sun  with  level  rays  of  light 
With  glory   crowns   Mt.   Carmel's  rocky 


glory 
height. 


The  wreathed  mists  collected  dense  below, 
In  gorgeous  hues  of  gold  and  purple  glow  ; 
While  lower  yet  upon  its  slopes  are  seen 
Wide-circling    groves    of    cedars,  darkly 

green ; 
And  'midst  their  verdure,  gleaming  here 

and  there, 
The  leaping  mountain  streams  like  silver 

bands  appear. 


Hark!  on  the  air,  in  wild  concordance  rise 
From  Carmel's  base,  a  thousand  mingled 

cries  ; 
With  rolling  cymbals,  and  the  harp's  shrill 

twang, 
The  whistling  pipes,  and  brazen  trumpets' 


clang. 


Lo !  like  an  army  comes  a  countless  throng 
With  measured  tramp,  the  winding  way 

along, 

And  flaunting  banners  proudly  wave  above 
Exulting  Priests  of  Baal  and  Prophets  of 

the  Grove 


A  single  palm-tree,  near  a  basined  spring, 
Towers  o'er  the  scattered  cedars,  like  a 

king. 
Hither   they  come;   and  soon  beneath  it 

rise 

An  ivory  throne,  and  tent  of  Tyrian  dyes. 
Through  opening  ranks  stalks  Ahab  to  his 

seat, 

And  bursting  shouts  the  son  of  Omri  greet. 
He  waves  his  hand,  and  every  voice  is  still, 
And  every  ear  attent  to  learn  the  royal 

will. 


"  Ye  Priests  of  mighty  Baal — before  whose 
shrine 


Samaria  owns  her  deity,  and  mine — 
(463) 


WILLIAM    E.    GIL  MO  RE. 


[1850-60. 


This  Tishbite  scoffer  dares  our  god  con 
temn, 

Mock  at  his  power,  his  worshipers  con 
demn. 

An  altar  build ;  your  votive  off'rings  pay. 

With  mystic  rites  supernal  powers  obey, 

Call  from  the  clouds  the  lightning's  vivid 
flame, 

That  Israel  may  learn  to  venerate  his 
name ! 

"  Stand  forth,  thou  scoffer ! "  Forth  Elijah 
stood, 

Calm  and  erect  where  others  lowly  bowed. 

k>  Wilt  thou  persist  in  troubling  Israel 
yet?" 

"  Ahab  !  not  I ;  but  thou  and  thine  for 
get 

God,  and  his  law,  on  awful  Sinai  given, 

And  bring  on  Jacob's  seed  the  curse  of 
heaven  ! 

Repent,  O !  king ;  for  lo !  this  day  the 
Lord 

Will  fearful  vengeance  take,  and  be  by 
earth  adored. 

"  Ye  Priests  of  Baal !  ye  Prophets  of  the 

Grove ! 
Hear  now  the  word  which  cometh  from 

above : 

This  day  ye  perish  !     Go  now,  and  obey 
Thy  king's  command,  thy  impious  homage 

pay; 

Bow  down  to  yonder  senseless  block  of 

stone, 
Which  ye  regard  as  God ;  when  ye  have 

done 

The  orgies  vain,  I'll  pile  an  altar  here 
And  call  upon  His  name  who  hears  and 

answers  prayer ! " 

With   anger   paled   the   monarch   on   his 

throne  : 
"Thy  choice  is  final!    Let  the  work  speed 

on," 


He  cried,  enraged  ;  "  and  reckless  dotard ! 

hear 
This   further:    now  by  all   the   gods!    I 

swear 
That  while  the  fire  consumes  the  sacred 

wood, 
And   hissing   licks   the  bullock's  pouring 

blood, 
Thou  shalt  be  thrown  to  writhe  amid  the 

flame ; 
And  thus  shall  perish  all  who  mock  Baal's 

holy  name  ! " 

Elijah  heard  the  horrid  threat,  and  shout 
Which  rose  in  fierce  approval ;  but  with 
out 

A  word  or  changing  feature  to  betray 
Fear  of  untoward  issue  to  the  day, 
In  holy  ecstasy  he  stood ;  his  soul 
Enrapt,  felt  only  the  divine  control ; 
All  human  feelings  for  the  moment  gone, 
God's  awful  spirit  reigned  within  his  breast 
alone. 

The  work  is  done.     The  offered  bullock's 

blood 
Dripped  slowly  o'er  the  perfumed  sandal 

wood, 
While  frankincense  and  myrrh  and  spices 

rare 

Mingled  rich  odors  with  the  sultry  air. 
Prophets    and    Priests    in    circling   ranks 

around 
Prostrate  to  earth,  their  foreheads  to  the 

ground, 

Shouted  in  unison  the  idle  prayer 
Till  Carmel  trembled  to  the  cry,  "  Hear, 

Baal !  0,  hear  ! 

Subsiding  oft,  then  swelling  forth  again, 

The  cry  arose,  in  repetition  vain, 

"Hear,   Baal!    O,  hear!"    till   from   the 

zenith  shone 
Upon   the    impious    scene,   the    noonday 

sun. 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    E.    GILMORE. 


465 


Wild  with  excitement   then,  and  boding 

fear, 
Each   Priest  and   Prophet,  to  the  girdle 

bare, 
His   bosom  gashed  with  many  a  ghastly 

wound, 
And  sprinkled  human  blood  o'er  all  the 

space  around ! 


Wide  o'er  the  plain  Mt.  Carmel's  shadow 
fell, 

Ere  on  the  air  the  clamor  ceased  to  swell ; 

With  strength  expended  and  exhausted 
breath, 

And  trembling  dread  of  close  impending 
death, 

They  watch  Elijah's  preparations.     Soon 

Twelve  stones  compose  an  altar,  rough,  un 
hewn  ; 

About  its  base  the  ground  is  deeply 
trenched, 

With  water  from  the  spring  three  times 
the  whole  is  drenched. 


All  things  complete,  Elijah  bowed  in 
prayer. 

Then  shook  Baal's  votaries  with  gasping 
fear ; 

But  as  the  minutes  silent  stole  away, 

They  borrowed  courage  from  the  long  de 
lay. 

With  haughty  mien,  his  crown  upon  his 
brow, 

From  the  royal  seat  uprises  Ahab  now, 

Stalks  to  the  altar,  and  with  gesture 
proud, 

Speaks  in  exultant  tones  thus  to  the  won- 
d'ring  crowd : 

"  Why  trifle  we  ?  and  here  with  childish 

thought 
Seek  from  the  heavens  to  have  an  answer 

brought 

To  teach  us  who  is  God  ?     Behold  in  me 
Thy  king  anointed,  and  thy  deity  ! 


Thus  level  with  the  dust  each  shrine  pro 
fane 

That  is  not  reared  in  Ahab's  sacred  name ! " 

He  turns  with  rash  design,  but  startled, 
hears 

Wild  shrieks  of  terror  break  on  his  aston 
ished  ears. 

For  lo !  amid  the  cloudless  sky,  a  blaze 
Of  lightning  like  a  sporting  serpent  plays, 
Writhing  its  folds  in  fiery  volumes  vast, 
With  open  jaws  and  fury-sparkling  crest, 
A  moment  plays ;  attending  thunders  crash ; 
Carmel  recoils  affrighted  from  the  flash. 
Which  scatters  far  and  near  the  idol's  pyre, 
And  wraps  Jehovah's  altar  in  consuming 
fire! 


'Tis  morn  again  ;  but  now  the  risen  sun 

Is  hid  by  clouds  and  mists,  cold,  thick,  and 
dun, 

As  'twere  to  vail  from  the  All-seeing  Eye 

The  flame-scathed  forms  that  dank  and 
fest'ring  lie 

On  Carmel's  slopes.  The  obscene  vultures 
prowl, 

Silent  among  the  dead ;  the  ravening  jack 
als  howl, 

Eager  and  savage  o'er  their  loathsome 
feasts  ; 

The  Groves  are  solitudes ;  Baal's  temples 
have  no  Priests  ! 


0,  I  WAS  HAPPY  YESTERNIGHT. 

THE  hearth  was  piled  with  glowing  coals, 
Diffusing  warmth  and  ruddy  light, 

Alone,  with  Annie  in  my  arms, 
0  !  I  was  happy  yesternight ! 

Her  beating  heart,  I  felt  its  throb 

When'er  I  strained  her  to  my  breast ; 

And  in  its  raptured  trembling  read 
The  love  I  wooed  her  for,  confessed. 


30 


466 


WILLIAM    E.    GILMORE, 


[1850-60. 


Her  tearful  eyes,  so  brightly  blue, 

Turned  not  their  melting  rays  on  me  ; 

Upon  the  shadowy  ceil  she  gazed, 
Like  one  who  dreamed  in  ecstasy. 

And  not  with  words  we  plighted  faith ; 

For  words  the  rapturous  spell  had  broke : 
Yet  firmer,  truer  vows  than  ours, 

0  !  never  yet  hath  lover  spoke. 

All  fears,  all  sorrows  I  forgot, 

My  soul  was  ravished  with  delight ; 

Alone,  with  Annie  in  my  arms, 
0  !  I  was  happy  yesternight ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  MOUNT  LOGAN.* 

YE  who  love  only  Nature's  wildest  form : 
The  desolate  rock,  the  desolating  storm  ; 
The  toppling,  crackling  avalanche  of  snow, 
Threat'ning  with  ruin  all  the  plain  below, 
Where  the  poor  peasant  from  the  chilly 

soil, 
Wrings  half  a  maintenance  with  double 

toil; 
The   beetling   crag,  out-jutting   from   the 

shore, 

Where  ocean  chafes  with  everlasting  roar, 
Mindless  how  oft  the  drowning  sailor's  wail 
Has  mingled  there  with  winter's  whistling 

gale; 

Who,  with  romantic  affectation,  call 
The  dreary,  lifeless  deserts  beautiful, 
Where  bleaching  bones  of  perished  pil 
grims  lay 
Pointing  the  future  caravan  its  way  ; 


*  A  prominent  hill  near  Chillicothe,  Ohio. 


Go,  find  such  scenes  where  Lybian  sands 

are  spread, 
Or  huge  Mont  Blanc  uprears  its  glittering 

head, 
Or    Scylla    frowns,   the   sailor's   constant 

dread. 

But  thou,  O  gentler  tourist,  who  dost  feel 
A  purer  pleasure  o'er  thy  spirit  steal, 
When  softer  landscapes  open  to  thy  view 
Their  endless  novelties  of  form  and  hue ; 
Come  wander  here,  with  pensive  step  and 

slow, 

Where  sweet  Scioto's  silver  waters  flow, 
And  smiling  Nature  owns  how  kind  a  God 
Gave  man  this  bright  and  beautiful  abode. 


YON  BROOK  HATH  WATERS  PEARLY 
BRIGHT. 

YON  brook  hath  waters  pearly  bright ; 
Its  bed  hath  pebbles  pure  and  white  ; 
Upon  its  marge  the  violet  grows  ; 
Beside  it  blooms  the  carmine  rose. 

I  know  a  maiden  brighter  far 
Than  e'er  its  sun-kissed  waters  are  ; 
No  white  so  pure  its  channel  knows, 
As  Annie's  parted  lips  disclose. 

Her  eyes  are  deeper,  sweeter  blue 
Than  yonder  violets  bathed  in  dew  ; 
A  rose  to  peer  her  vermeil  cheek, 
In  vain  'mong  yonder  clusters  seek. 

And  softer  than  its  waters'  flow, 
Her  voice,  so  musical  and  low ; 
And  ah !  her  soul  shows  more  of  heaven 
Than  in  the  brook's  reflection's  given  ! 


BENJAMIN   ST.  JAMES   FRY. 


BENJAMIN  ST.  JAMES  FRY  has  been  a  resident  of  Ohio  since  he  was  three  years 
of  age,  but  he  was  born  at  Knoxville,  Tennessee,  on  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  1824. 
He  received  a  liberal  education  at  Woodward  College,  in  Cincinnati,  and  then  pre 
pared  for  the  ministry,  and  became  a  member  of  the  Ohio  Conference  of  the  Method 
ist  Episcopal  Church.  He  is  now  President  of  the  Worthington  College  for  Young 
Women. 

Mr.  Fry  began  his  literary  career  as  a  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Times, 
about  the  year  1840.  In  1844  he  was  joint  editor  and  publisher,  with  Austin  T.  Earle, 
of  the  Western  Rambler,  one  of  the  many  unsuccessful  literary  magazines  which  too 
hopeful  young  men  have  undertaken  in  the  West.  He  is  the  author  of  several 
prose  works,  and  is  a  contributor  to  The  Methodist  Quarterly  Review,  at  New  York, 
and  the  Ladies'  Repository,  at  Cincinnati. 


DROOP  NOT. 

"O  CHILD  of  sorrow,  toiling  o'er  life's 
way, 

Droop  not ! "  I  heard  a  white-robed  angel 
say; 

"  And  God  shall  give  thee  yet  a  triumph- 
day. 

"  Tyrants  may  pierce  thee  with  the  keen 
est  steel, 

And  rack  thy  body  till  the  brain  shall  reel, 
But  God  shall  guide  it  for  thy  lasting  weal. 

"  Who  falls  for  God  and  man,  he  never 

dies, 

But,  deathless,  liveth  ever  in  the  skies, 
A  king  among  the  saints  of  paradise. 

"  And   if  they  hide  thee  from  the  sun's 

bright  gleams, 
Though  prison  bars  may  rend  thy  fondest 

dreams, 
They  cannot  shut  thee  from  the  Spirit- 


beams. 


"  They  sleep  not  listless  on  a  bed  of  down, 
Who  win  the  lasting  plaudit  of  renown, 
But  wear,  with  joy,  the  martyr's  thorny 


crown. 


"  Thy  Master  drank  a  bitter  cup  for  thee, 
And  canst  thou  hope  the  eternal  King  to 


see, 


If  from  his  bloody  cross  thy  soul  would 
flee? 

"List,  ye!    Thy  brother  man,  with  soul 

sublime, 

That  lived  within  the  olden  Jewish  clime, 
And  prophesied  the  stately  march  of  time: 

«  His  glowing  Spirit  pages  thus  I  read  : 
In  the  dim  morning  sow  thy  precious  seed, 
Nor   let   the  evening   shades  retard    thy 
speed. 

"  And  though  death's  shafts  shall  lay  thy 

body  cold, 

The  God  of  hosts,  who  reigneth  as  of  old, 
Shall  give  thee  better  harvest  than  earth's 


(  4f>7  ) 


gold. 


468                                        BENJAMIN    ST.    JAMES    FRY.                               [1850-60. 

*'  0  child  of  sorrow!  couldst  thou  only  see 

Tell  him,  a  woman's  early  love 

Thy  Saviour,  as  he  smileth  now  on  thee, 

Is  changeless  as  the  sky  ; 

Thy  heart  would  mount  like  bird  in  spring 

The  first  true  feelings  of  the  heart 

tide  glee. 

Are  those  that  last  for  aye  ; 

And  like  the  star  of  evening, 

"  Thou  wouldst  not  heed  the  storms  on  life's 

Far  brighter  is  its  ray, 

dark  way, 

As  darker  grows  the  thickening  gloom, 

But  fix  thy  vision  on  the  gleam  of  day 

Which  shrouds  the  face  of  day. 

From  the  eternal  throne  —  nor  think  to  stay. 

I  pray  thee,  say,  I  love  him  yet 

"  I  charge  thee,  brother,  if  thy  soul  hath 

As  in  the  moon-lit  hour, 

caught 

When  first  he  knelt  him  at  my  feet 

The   light   of    heaven,   let    not   a   single 

Within  the  vine-clad  bower  ; 

thought 

Then  my  every  thought  was  his, 

Rest  on  these  fancied  toys  that  sin  hath 

The  crimson  blush  —  the  sigh  ; 

bought  ; 

Too  true  I  feel  they  are  so  still, 

And  will  be  till  I  die  ! 

"But  seek  thee  ever  for  the  throne-girt 

spring, 

Till  angel-bands  thy  triumph  notes  shall 

• 

sing, 

And  heaven's  high  arches  with  the  echoes 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT.* 

ring." 

, 

THERE  sleeps  beneath  this  marble  tomb, 

A  little  flower,  that  'gan  to  bloom, 

*"~ 

But  withered  ere  the  even  ; 

For  came  the  giant  wizard,  Death, 

SAY,  I  LOVE  HIM  YET. 

And  stole  away  its  fragrant  breath, 

As  bees  the  sweets  of  flowers. 

I  PRAT  thee,  say,  I  love  him  yet, 

Although  long  years  have  passed, 

It  was  a  gentle  little  thing, 

And  I  am  strangely  altered  now 

Like  violets  that  bloom  in  Spring, 

Since  he  has  seen  me  last  ; 

Within  some  pleasant  meadow. 

The  vermeil  hue  that  tinged  my  cheek 

Has  faded  from  it  now  ; 

It  gently  smiled  a  time  or  two, 

The  smile  has  wandered  from  my  lips, 

And  oped  its  eye  of  liquid  blue, 

J        Jr    7 

And  clouded  is  my  brow  ! 

But  not  on  earthly  sorrow. 

Tell  him,  I  love  him  yet  !     The  words 
He  whispered  in  my  ear, 
So  full  of  pure  and  godlike  love 

We  wept  not  o'er  its  flowery  bier  : 
Why  should  we  shed  a  single  tear, 
That  it  had  flown  to  heaven  ? 

E'en  now  in  dreams  I  hear, 

Its  mother  lost  an  evening  star  : 

Like  angel's  voice  from  yonder  world, 

Its  gains,  indeed,  were  greater  far  — 

So  musical  its  tone  ; 

It  'scaped  to-morrow. 

Transported  with  the  sound,  I  wake, 

Jr 

And  find  I  am  alone  ! 

*  It  died  the  day  it  was  born. 

MARY   E.  FEE   SHANNON. 


MARY  EULALIE  FEE  was  a  descendant,  on  her  father's  side,  from  the  family  to 
which  John  Philpot  Curran  belonged,  and,  on  her  mother's  side,  from  the  Pilgrim 
pioneers  of  Plymouth,  Elizabeth  Dutton  Carver,  her  mother,  belonging  to  the  seventh 
generation  in  a  direct  line  from  John  Carver,  who  came  to  America  in  the  Mayflower. 
Her  parents  were  married  at  Marietta,  Ohio,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  October,  1817. 
She  was  their  third  child,  and  was  born  at  Flemingsburg,  Kentucky,  on  the  ninth  day 
of  February,  1824.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  eleven  years  old.  The  family 
then  resided  in  Clermont  county,  Ohio.  Her  mother,  a  woman  of  uncommon  energy 
of  character,  being  left  in  destitute  circumstances,  was  obliged  to  provide  for,  and  edu 
cate  her  family,  until  her  two  sons  had  attained  strength  and  experience  which  ena 
bled  them  to  afford  her  assistance ;  yet  Mary  E.  was  well  instructed,  not  only  in  the 
branches  of  learning  ordinary  for  young  ladies,  but  was  given  the  best  opportunities 
for  musical  culture  which  Cincinnati  afforded — opportunities  which  she  practically  im 
proved.  When  quite  a  young  girl  she  wrote  verses  which  highly  pleased  her  friends, 
and  was  afterward  an  acceptable  contributor  to  The  Columbian  and  Great  West,  to 
the  Cincinnati  Daily  Times,  Arthur's  Home  Magazine,  and  other  periodicals.  She 
wrote  with  great  ease,  and  was  very  reluctant  to  revise. 

Miss  Fee  was  married  at  New  Richmond,  Ohio,  on  the  thirty-first  day  of  January, 
1854,  to  John  Shannon,  then  editor  of  a  newspaper  at  Auburn,  California.  In  the 
month  following  she  accompanied  her  husband  to  his  home,  promising  herself  lit 
erary,  as  well  as  other  usefulness,  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific ;  but  her  health,  which 
had  never  been  robust,  declined  rapidly,  and  she  died  on  the  twenty-sixth  day  of  De 
cember,  1855.  Among  the  papers,  returned  from  California  to  her  friends  in  Cin 
cinnati,  was  a  poem  in  which  a  painful  foreboding  that  she  would  never  tread  her 
native  land  again,  was  sorrowfully  expressed : 

There's  a  storied  vale  romantic 
Beyond  the  wide  Atlantic, 
Where  the  red  June  rose  is  blushing 
'Neath  the  melody  outgushing 

From  each  embowering  grove. 
Shall  my  feet  again  be  roaming, 
In  the  evening's  pleasant  gloaming, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  rove  ? 
The  fitful  winds  are  sighing  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  my  heart-chords  low  replying,  nevermore. 

In  August,  1854,  Moore,  Wilstach,  Keys  &  Co.,  Cincinnati,  published  her  poems  in 
a  neat  duodecimo  of  one  hundred  and  ninety-four  pages.  It  was  entitled,  "  Buds, 
Blossoms,  and  Leaves." 

(469) 


470 


MARY    E .    FEE    S  II  A  N  N  O  N . 


[1850-60. 


NEVER  STOP  TO  LOOK  BEHIND  YOU. 

NEVER  stop  to  look  behind  you, 

Never  loiter  through  the  day, 
Never  let  inaction  bind  you 

In  its  woof  of  brown  and  gray ; 
But  up  !  and  onward,  ever ! 

To  the  left,  nor  to  the  right, 
Let  your  gaze  be  turning  never ; 

But  where  beams  the  beacon  light 
Of  duty,  straight  before  you, 

Keep  your  feet  upon  the  way ; 
For  though  clouds  should  gather  o'er  you 

They  must  quickly  pass  away. 

Never  stop  to  mope  in  sadness, 

To  mourn,  and  sigh,  and  fret, 
'Tis  a  sinful  kind  of  madness, 

To  believe  your  star  is  set 
In  a  night  of  hopeless  sorrow  ; 

Oh,  arouse,  and  soon  forget, 
In  the  stirring,  bright  to-morrow, 

Each  unworthy,  vain  regret ; 
Fortune  never  stoops  when,  sighing, 

The  suppliant  breathes  her  name ; 
At  her  feet  are  only  lying, 

For  the  brave,  her  wreaths  of  fame. 

What  though  the  friends  you've  cherished, 

And  the  hearts  that  were  your  own, 
And  the  dreams  your  fancy  nourished, 

Like  meteor  gleams  have  flown; 
The  soul  is  narrow  moulded, 

If,  in  all  this  world  of  ours, 
Brighter  gems  are  not  enfolded 

In  the  hearts  of  human  flowers, 
To  give  thee  at  the  asking, 

Their  freshness  and  their  bloom, — 
If  but  earnest  smiles  were  basking 

Where  now  hangs  that  sullen  gloom. 

With  youth  and  health  distilling, 
In  that  manly  frame  of  thine, 

The  blue  veins,  softly  filling 
With  life's  sweet,  rosy  wine, 


'Tis  naught  but  rank  insanity 

To  fold  the  arms,  and  sigh 
O'er  the  faults  of  frail  humanity, 

And  moan,  and  pray  to  die ; 
With  slaves  and  cowards,  never 

Let  the  powers  you  possess 
Ignobly  sink  forever, 

In  the  slough  of  idleness ! 


A  WISH. 

O !  WOULD  I  were  a  poet ! 

I'd  teach  my  harp  to  breathe 
Like  a  bright,  enchanted  thing, 
And  from  its  chords  and  bosom  fling 

The  sunny  lays  I'd  weave. 

O  !  would  I  were  a  poet — 

Not  for  the  wreath  of  Fame 
That  twines  around  a  poet's  brow, 
Nor  the  homage  of  the  souls  that  bow 
Unto  a  deathless  name  ; 

But,  oh  !  in  sorrow's  trying  hour, 
'Tis  surely  sweet,  to  rove 

Afar  on  Fancy's  iris  wing, 

To  a  world  of  our  imagining, 

All  pure,  and  bright  with  love. 

I'd  be  a  poet — ah,  and  yet 

One  other  boon  I  crave — 
A  priceless  gem,  that  is  not  bought 
With  yellow  gold,  nor  is  it  brought 
From  'neath  the  crystal  wave  : 

It  is  a  gentle  heart,  to  thrill 

In  concord  with  mine  own, 
To  hold  for  me  affection  pure — 
Abiding  love,  which  shall  endure 

When  change-fraught  years  have 
flown. 


WILLIAM   W.  FOSDICK. 


WILLIAM  WHITEMAN  FOSDICK  was  born  in  the  city  of  Cincinnati,  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  day  of  January,  1825.  His  father,  Thomas  R.  Fosdick,  was  long  known  as  a 
merchant  and  banker  of  that  city,  and  his  mother,  Julia  Drake,  as  an  actress  of  much 
merit.  The  boy  Fosdick  was  first  sent  to  school  to  Samuel  Johnson  of  Cincinnati, 
afterward  to  the  Cincinnati  College.  He  was  at  this  time  more  remarkable  for  bright 
ness  than  application ;  and,  though  frequently  proving  a  puzzling  case  to  the  pedagogic 
mind,  was  known  amongst  his  fellows  as  a  generous  and  whole-souled  youth,  who 
scorned  all  meanness,  and  possessed  a  keen  wit. 

Mr.  Fosdick  was  graduated  at  Transylvania  University,  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and 
immediately  went  to  Louisville  to  study  law  with  Garnett  Duncan,  of  that  city.  He 
afterward  completed  his  studies  with  Judge  Pryor,  of  that  State.  He  began  the  prac 
tice  of  the  law  in  Covington,  Kentucky,  in  partnership  with  James  Southgate.  Ere 
long  he  took  up  his  residence  in  Cincinnati,  where  he  practiced  law  in  partnership  with 
George  C.  Williamson.  About  this  time  Mr.  Fosdick,  still  a  youth,  gained  some  dis 
tinction  as  a  poet  by  a  dramatic  effort,  entitled  "  Tecumseh,"  composed  merely  as  a 
vehicle  to  histrionic  fame  for  one  of  his  friends.  Yet  his  first  real  appearance  in  the 
literary  world  was  as  the  author  of  |;  Malmiztic,  the  Toltec ;  and  the  Cavaliers  of  the 
Cross,"  a  novel  whose  fault  is  over-ornamentation,  whose  virtue  is  a  historic  fidelity 
and  knowledge  which  cannot  be  found  outside  of  the  old  Spanish  histories  themselves. 
Mr.  Fosdick,  in  the  years  1847-49,  traveled  in  Mexico,  and  his  scenery  is,  therefore, 
truthful  and  brilliant.  We  trust  that  the  author  will  one  day  prune  and  simplify  this 
interesting  romance,  and  that  it  may  be  reproduced.  This  work  was  published  in  the 
year  1851.  Soon  afterward  Mr.  Fosdick  went  to  reside  in  the  city  of  New  York, 
where  he  remained,  in  the  practice  of  the  law,  for  seven  years.  Here,  in  the  year 
1855,  he  published  a  collection  of  poems,  entitled  "Ariel,  and  other  Poems."  The 
work  contains  the  last  works  of  illustration  from  the  pencil  of  the  celebrated  Dallas, 
and  was  in  every  way  an  elegant  production.  This  work  is  a  strange  medley,  and  is 
characteristic  of  the  mingled  smiles  and  tears  which  make  the  inevitable  storm  and 
bow  which  blend  in  the  poet's  life :  for  life  has  been  made  a  battle  to  him  chiefly 
through  the  fraud  of  those  who  should  have  been  most  generous  to  him. 

The  delicate  sprite  Ariel  is  taken  up  from  the  point  where  Shakspeare  leaves  him, 
and  followed  to  the  prison,  more  potent  than  that  inflicted  by  Sycorax,  of  Llama, 
Flame.  In  other  words,  Ariel  loves  ;  Air  feeds  Fire. 

Mr.  Fosdick  has  resided  in  Cincinnati  for  the  past  three  years,  where  he  has  been 
ever  regarded  as  the  City  Laureate.  In  nearly  every  festival,  whether  of  pioneers, 
artists,  or  literati,  he  is  the  poet.  He  is  every  where  regarded  as  a  man  generous  to  a 
fault.  He  is  widely  known  as  a  lover  of  the  drama,  of  music,  and  every  kind  of  art. 

(471) 


472 


WILLIAM    W.    FOSDICK. 


[1850-60. 


He  is  at  present  editor  of  The  Sketch  Club,  an  illustrated  paper,  supported  by  the 
artists  of  Cincinnati  and  their  friends. 

Mr.  Fosdick's  poems  have  so  long  flown  through  the  West,  like  winged  seed,  and 
taken  root  in  so  many  hearts,  that  we  need  not  produce  here  many  specimens.  He 
has  written  with  spirit  and  beauty,  a  number  of  poems  which  could  not  have  been  in 
spired  elsewhere  than  in  his  native  West — of  which  "  The  Maize,"  "  The  Catawba,** 
and  "  The  Pawpaw,"  are  specimens.  His  songs  have  set  the  pulses  of  nature  to 
music,  and,  as  wedded  to  melody  by  Vincent  Wallace  and  others,  have  made  many  a 
room  grow  stiller,  and  many  an  eye  moisten.  The  verses  "  Light  and  Night,"  pub 
lished  May,  1860,  in  The  Dial,  a  monthly  magazine  of  Cincinnati,  are  a  fine  indica 
tion  of  a  deeper  mood.  The  poem  "  Lute  and  Love,"  is  a  fair  specimen  of  our  author's 
lyric  grace. 


THE  MAIZE. 

A  SONG  for  the  plant  of  my  own  native 

West, 

Where  nature  and  freedom  reside, 
By  plenty  still  crowned,  and  by  peace  ever 

bless'd, 

To  the  corn !  the  green  corn  of  her  pride ! 
In  the  climes  of  the  East  has  the  olive  been 

sung ; 
And  the  grape  been  the  theme  of  their 

lays, 
But  for  thee  shall  a  harp  of  the  backwoods 

be  strung, 
Thou  bright,  ever-beautiful  Maize ! 

Afar  in  the  forest  where  rude  cabins  rise, 

And  send  up  their  pillars  of  smoke, 
And  the  tops  of  their  columns  are  lost  in 

the  skies, 

O'er  the  heads  of  the  cloud-kissing  oak — 
the  skirt  of  the  grove,  where  the 
sturdy  arm  swings 
The  ax  till  the  old  giant  sways, 
And  echo  repeats  every  blow  as  it  rings, 
Shoots  the  green  and  the  glorious  Maize ! 

There  buds  of  the  buckeye  in  Spring  are 

the  first, 
And  the  willow's  gold  hair  then  appears, 


And  snowy  the  cups  of  the  dogwood  that 

burst 

By  the  red-bud,  with  pink  tinted  tears ; 
And  striped  the  bowls   which  the  poplar 

holds  up 

For  the  dew  and  the  sun's  yellow  rays, 
And  brown  is  the  pawpaw's  shade-blossom 
ing  cup, 
In  the  wood,  near  the  sun-loving  Maize ! 

When  through  the   dark  soil   the  bright 

steel  of  the  plow 

Turns  the  mould  from  its  unbroken  bed, 
The  plowman  is  cheered  by  the  finch  on 

the  bough, 

And  the  black-bird  doth  follow  his  tread. 
And  idle,  afar  on  the  landscape  descried, 

The  deep-lowing  kine  slowly  graze, 
And  nibbling  the  grass  on  the  sunny  hill 
side 

Are  the  sheep,  hedged  away  from  the 
Maize. 

With  spring-time,  and  culture,  in  martial 

array 

It  waves  its  green  broad  swords  on  high. 
And  fights  with  the  gale,  in  a  fluttering 

fray, 

And  the  sunbeams,  which  fall  from  the 
sky — 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    W.    F  OS  DICK. 


473 


It  strikes  its  green  blades  at  the  zephyrs  at 

noon, 

And  at  night  at  the  swift-flying  fays, 
Who  ride  through  the  darkness,  the  beams 

of  the  moon, 

Through  the  spears  and  the  flags  of  the 
Maize ! 

When  Summer  is  fierce  still  its  banners 

are  green, 

Each  warrior's  long  beard  groweth  red, 
His  emerald-bright  sword  is  sharp-pointed 

and  keen, 

And  golden  his  tassel-plumed  head ; 
As  a  host  of  armed  knights  set  a  monarch 

at  naught, 

They  defy  the  day-god  to  his  gaze ; 
And,  revived  every  morn  from  the  battle 

that's  fought, 

Fresh   stand   the   green   ranks   of  the 
Maize ! 

But  brown  comes  the  Autumn,  and  sere 

grows  the  corn, 
And    the    woods    like    a    rainbow    are 

dress'd, 
And  but  for  the  cock,  and  the  noontide's 

clear  horn, 

Old  Time  would  be  tempted  to  rest ; 
The  humming  bee  fans  off  a  shower  of 

gold, 

From  the  mullen's  long  rod  as  it  sways, 
And  dry  grow  the  leaves  which  protecting 

enfold 
The  ears  of  the  well-ripened  Maize. 

At  length  Indian  Summer,  the  lovely,  doth 

come, 

With  its  blue  frosty  nights,  and  days  still, 
When  distantly  clear  sounds  the  waterfall's 

hum, 

And  the  sun  smokes  ablaze  on  the  hill ! 
A  dim  vail  hangs  over  the  landscape  and 

flood, 
And  the  hills  are  all  mellowed  in  haze, 


While  Fall  creeping  on,  like  a  monk  'neath 

his  hood, 

Plucks  the  thick  rustling  wealth  of  the 
Maize. 

And  the  heavy  wains  creak  to  the  barns 

large  and  gray, 

Where  the  treasure  securely  we  hold, 
Housed   safe  from  the  tempest,  dry  shel 
tered  away, 

Our  blessing  more  precious  than  gold  ! 
And  long  for  this  manna  that  springs  from 

the  sod, 

Shall  we  gratefully  give  Him  the  praise, 
The  source  of  all  bounty,  our  Father  and 

God, 
Who  sent  us  from  heaven  the  Maize ! 


THE  CATAWBA* 

O,  WEAK  are  words  to  well  express 
The  rich,  ambrosial  fruitiness, 
Catawba!  of  thy  juicy  flood, 
Thy  delicate,  delicious  blood, 
Now  vermeil,  softer  in  its  dye 
Than  falls  in  from  a  rosy  sky, 
Through  chapel  windows,  just  as  dawn 
Looks  o'er  the  level  of  the  lawn — 
Now  topaz  lighted,  and  now  'tis  kissed 
With  tender  tints  of  amethyst, 
And  changes  in  the  sparkling  glass, 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  sunny  grass ; 
Next,  with  a  tinge  of  gold  endued, 
And  now  translucent,  amber-hued — 
Change  after  change  so  swift  succeeds, 
It  catches  roses  in  its  beads ! 
Ambrosial  essence,  excellent, 
Thou  nectar  of  the  Occident ! 

Long  may  the  green  leaf  brightly  shine 
Upon  those  sunny  slopes  of  vine, 


*  Dedicated  to  Nicholas  Long-worth. 


474 


WILLIAM    W.    FOSDICK. 


[1850-60. 


Whose  vintage  unto  labor  yields 
Returns  more  rich  than  harvest  fields — 
In  healthful  occupation  free, 
Rewards  well  honest  industry, 
Till  vineyard  cottages  are  made 
The  homes  where  Plenty  smiles  in  shade. 
Long  may  the  lovely  valley  shine 
With  miles  of  waving  slopes  of  vine, 
Blushing  with  its  unpressed  wine, 
Where  luscious  clusters,  amber-clear, 
Under  the  purple  leaves  appear — 
Long  may  the  traveler  gladly  gaze 
On  fields  of  vine  and  fluttering  maize, 
And  see  Ohio's  valley  smile 
More  rich  with  harvests  than  the  Nile, 
And  find,  though  Egypt  be  not  blessed, 
There's  corn  and  wine  far  in  the  West. 


THE  PAWPAW. 

ASIA  hath  banian  and  Afric  hath  palm, 
And  Europe  the  sweet-scented  haw  ; 
The  isles  of  the  South  have  their  forests  of 

balm, 

Where  blazes  the  brilliant  macaw  ; 
The  fern  on  the  ground,  and  the  pine  on 

the  crest 

Of  the  mountain,  my  sympathies  draw ; 
But  far  more  I  love  thee,  thou  plant  of  the 

West, 
My  native,  my  backwood  pawpaw ! 

Where  the  woodland  is  darkest,  so  dark  in 

its  shade, 

That  the  sun  on  the  roof  of  the  trees 
Can  only  peep  through  where  a  parting  is 

made 

In  the  thatch  by  the  hand  of  the  breeze ; 
In  Kentucky's  deep  woods,  where  my  heart 

has  its  home, 

Where    the   flashing-eyed    hunter    and 
squaw, 


Of  old,  were  wont  through  the  forest  to 

roam, 
There  grows  the  green,  polished  pawpaw. 

Broad,  broad  are  its  leaves,  and  as  green 

as  the  sea, 

And  its  blossoms  are  chocolate  bells, 
Where  booming  inside   is  the  hum  of  the 

bee, 

Like  the  roar  of  the  ocean  in  shells ; 
And  brown  as  a  wine-skin,  transformed  to 

a  purse, 

Are  the  rinds  that  its  riches  enfold  ; 
A  heart  of  bright  yellow — black  seeds  in 
terspersed — 
A  fruit  of  ambrosia  and  gold ! 

Oh !  white  are  the  caps  of  the   elder  in 

May, 

That  gracefully  nod  o'er  the  fence, 
And  many  the  plumes  that  the  sumachs 

display 

Of  velvety  crimson  intense  ; 
And   the  Indian  arrow  has  scarlet,  'mid 

snows, 

That  shames  the  red  berries  of  haw ; 
But  doubly  more  dear  to  my  bosom  than 

those, 
Are  the  broad,  ribby  leaves  of  pawpaw. 

Green  plant !  'mid  a  forest  of  giants  in 

green, 

Of  cottonwood  Titans  in  black, 
Where    like   a    Colossus   the    sycamore's 

seen, 
Through   summer,   with   snows  on  his 

back  ; 
And  huge  above  all,  in  proportion  so  vast 

That  dizzy  grow  upturned  eyes, 
The  poplar,  in  blossom,  floats  out  in  the 

blast, 
Like  an  island  of  bloom  in  the  skies. 

There,  there  is  the  land  that  no  place  can 

supplant ; 
No  magic  of  nature,  or  art, 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    W .    F  0  S  D  I  C  K . 


475 


Can  ever  bring  such  a  majestical  haunt, 
Or  my  youth,  once  again  to  my  heart ! 
And  the  eyes  of  the  maid  that  bewitched 

the  broad  shade, 

'Mid  the  greenery,  will  memory  draw, 
Where  the  rivulet  played,  and  the  wood- 
haunting  Naiad 

Made  her  home,  in  the  groves  of  paw 
paw. 


LIGHT  AND  NIGHT. 

OUT  through  the  loom  of  light, 
When  comes  the  morning  white, 
Beams,  like  the  shuttle's  flight, 

Other  beams  follow, 
Up  the  dawn's  rays  so  slant, 
Forth  from  his  roof  and  haunt, 

Darts  the  swart  swallow. 

Back,  like  the  shuttle's  flight, 
Sink  the  gold  beams  at  night ; 
Threads  in  the  loom  of  light 

Grow  dark  in  the  woof; 
All  the  bright  beams  that  burn 
Sink  into  sunset's  urn; 
Swallows  at  night  return 

Home  to  their  roof. 

Thus  we  but  tarry  here 
A  moment,  a  day,  a  year — 
Appearing,  to  disappear — 

Grosser  things  spurning, 
Departing  to  whence  we  came, 
Leaving  behind  no  name — 
Like  a  wild  meteor  flame, 

Never  returning. 

Back  to  the  home  of  God 
Soul  after  soul  departs, 
And  the  enfranchised  hearts 
Burst  through  the  sod ; 


Death  does  but  loose  the  girth 
Buckling  them  on  to  earth, 

Promethean  rack ! 
Then  from  the  heavy  sod, 
Swift  to  the  home  of  God, 
The  Soul,  like  the  Shuttle  and  Swallow, 

flies  back. 

The  Swallow,  Shuttle,  Soul,  and  Light, 
All  things  that  move  or  have  a  breath, 

Return  again  to  thee  at  night — 

To  thy  dark  roof,  0  ancient  Death ! 


WOODS  OF  THE  WEST.* 

WOODS  of  the  West !     Thine,  ever  thine, 

am  I; 
Thine    in     my    boyhood,    thine    more 

strongly  now — 
In  my  youth  my  heaven  was  just  beyond 

thy  sky, 

And  only  there  can  I  to  heaven  bow ; 
When,  with  a  star  upon  her  forehead  fair, 
The  dusky  Even  glides  along  the  West, 
When  swallows  ride  the  morning's  golden 

air, 
I  turn  to  thee,  as  to  my  mother's  breast. 

Let  others  praise  their  climes  of  sun  or 

snow, 
Thou  art  the  land  of  green,  majestic 

groves, 
Where  fresh  seas  shine,  and  endless  rivers 

flow, 
Where  Spring  with  Summer,  Fall  with 

Winter  roves — 
There  seasons  meet  and  clasp  as  they  were 

friends  ; 

And  the  dark  pigeon  from  the  land  of 
snow, 


*  Extract  from  a  poem  on  "  The  West,"  delivered  at  the 
Anniversary  celebration  of  the  Sigma  Chi  Society  of  Miami 
University,  Oxford,  Ohio,  June,  1857. 


476 


WILLIAM    W.    FOSDICK. 


[1850-60. 


Where  wind  Atlantic  with  Pacific  blends. 
Meets  the  white  sea-bird  from  the  Gulf 
below. 

In    those   green    woods    the   brave   with 

beauty  dwell, 
Nor  houseless  there  may  mortal  creature 

roam, 

The  cordial  welcome  and  the  frank  fare 
well 
Greet  every  stranger  in   a  backwoods 

home. 
Our   cabins   may   be  rude,  uncouth,  and 

small, 
Still  freely  there  may  each  one  share  a 

part, 

For  Hospitality  extends  a  hand  to  all, 
And  with  that  hand  she  gives  a  back 
woods'  heart. 

Pines   may  be  green   upon   the   North's 

white  hills, 
Magnolias  blanched  in  many  a  Southern 

grove, 
Give  me  the  forest  which  the  wild  vine 

fills, 
And   tulip-poplars    load    the   air   with 

love. 
Give  me  the  West,  beneath  its  sun,  or 

moon, 
Its    white   December,   or  its   flowered 

May; 
Give  me  the  hunter's  home,  the  land  of 

Boone, 

Where  generous  hearts  beat  music  night 
and  day. 

Loved  heart  of  this  broad  land,  no  one 

extreme 
Sheds    luster   sole   upon    this   nation's 

head; 
But  when  the  life-blood  stops  in  thy  great 

stream, 

The   center  dies,  be  sure  the  nation's 
dead. 


When,  at  last,  the  Pioneers  are  gone, 
And  all  the  generous  impulses  they  bore, 

Vanish  like  flowers,  fading  on  the  lawn, 
Toll  heaven's  bell — Columbia  is  no  more ! 


LUTE  AND  LOVE. 

COME  let  us  sing — 

Life's  silver  string 
But  half  its  songs  hath  spoken, 

And  in  the  soul 

Love's  golden  bowl 
Lies  by  the  well  unbroken ; 

Then  seize  the  lute, 

Nor  deem  Mirth's  fruit 
The  apples  of  Gomorrah, 

Since  Joy  and  Bliss 

The  tear-drops  kiss 
From  off  the  cheek  of  Sorrow. 

The  day  but  shows 

Its  gloom  to  those 
Who  live  amid  repining  ; 

Nor  night  so  dark 

But  some  bright  spark 
In  shade  will  yet  be  shining ; 

While  Winter's  snows 

But  bring  the  rose, 
The  spring-time's  scarlet  token  : 

Then  let  us  sing 

The  silver  string 
And  golden  bowl  unbroken. 

To  love  and  song 

Our  lives  belong, 
They  make  this  earth  elysian, 

And  death  so  strange 

Is  but  to  change 
To  heaven's  brighter  vision ; 

While  He  above 

Will  bless  the  love 
And  words  our  lips  have  spoken, 

And  we  shall  sing 

When  silver  string 
And  golden  bowl  lie  broken ! 


MARY   E.  NEALY. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  HARE  was  born  in  the  city  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  December 
twelfth,  1825.  Her  father,  Peter  Hare,  was  a  mechanic.  Her  mother,  whose  maiden 
name  was  Margaret  Pickering,  died  while  Mary  was  nine  years  old. 

Mary  was  sent  to  the  public  schools  of  Louisville  from  the  time  she  was  seven 
years  old,  until  she  was  eleven.  She  made  unusual  proficiency  in  her  studies  for  one 
so  young,  in  consideration  of  which  she  received  the  first  premium  for  scholarship 
during  each  of  the  last  two  years  of  her  attendance  at  school.  She  had  no  further 
opportunities  of  prosecuting  her  studies  under  the  direction  of  a  master;  and  when  her 
mother  died  she  was  left  pretty  much  to  pursue  her  own  inclinations.  But  she  had 
already  acquired  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  that  urged  her  to  read  whatever  promised 
to  allay  it.  Of  course  she  read  much  that  was  useless,  but  her  mind  was  too  pure 
and  powerful  to  feel  the  incumbrance  of  such  materials,  and  derived  continual  nour 
ishment  and  means  of  growth  from  whatever  tended  toward  the  True,  the  Beautiful, 
the  Good.  Although  her  ascent  was  through  the  mists  and  vapors  that  float  around 
this  "  dim  spot,  which  men  call  earth,"  yet  her  own  clear  eye  saw,  upon  their  envelop 
ing  glooms,  bright  rainbow  gleams  that  told  her  of  sunshine  and  daylight  above  the 
darkness,  and  sustained  her  orphaned  spirit  in  its  unfriended  struggles  toward  them. 

Miss  Hare  was  married  to  Hugh  Nealy,  December  twenty-fifth,  1842,  in  Har 
rison  county,  Indiana.  Her  husband  continued  to  reside  in  that  county,  where  he  held 
several  important  offices,  until  the  fall  of  the  year  1856,  when  he  removed  to  Indian 
apolis.  He  has  been  peculiarly  unfortunate,  soon  after  his  removal  to  his  present  resi 
dence,  having  been  permanently  disabled  by  a  railroad  accident.  This  misfortune 
devolved  the  entire  burthen  of  supplying  the  wants  of  their  family  upon  his  wife. 
With  very  feeble  health,  limited  acquaintance,  and  almost  no  resources  at  all,  save  those 
found  "  in  the  innate  force  of  her  own  soul,"  she  met  the  new  obligations  imposed  by 
her  husband's  misfortunes,  with  firmness,  capacity  and  energy. 

Left  alone  in  the  world  in  early  childhood,  she  became  "a  lonely,  isolated,  desolate 
child,"  and  "sought  in  the  land  of  dreams  what  she  found  not"  in  the  real  world. 
She  made  friends  of  the  old  forest  trees,  the  streams,  the  clouds,  the  moon  and  stars, 
and  found  in  them  companions  far  dearer  to  her  melancholy  spirit  than  among  the 
children  of  men.  Apart  from  her  human  associates  she  often  read  or  dreamed  in  the 
glorious  evenings  and  quiet  moonlight,  until  life's  rough  places  to  her  seemed  smooth, 
and  the  glorious  gates  of  Paradise  but  just  beyond.  Nevertheless,  the  loneliness  and 
sorrow  of  her  early  years  left  their  hues  upon  her  profoundest  being ;  face,  voice, 
thought,  poetry  and  life — all  are  colored  but  not  marred,  by  the  shadows  of  those 
mighty  specters — Solitude  and  Sorrow.  Nor  has  her  subsequent  life  been  such  as  to 
soften  these  early  glooms.  But  as  the  light  of  night's  queen  is  rendered  more  glori 
ous  and  beautiful  when  it  falls  upon  us  through  a  gentle  vail  of  silver  clouds,  so  the 

(477) 


478 


MARY    E.    NEALY. 


[1850-60. 


radiance  of  her  soul,  while  softened,  is  multiplied  and  rendered  "more  exquisite  still" 
by  the  light  and  shadowy  vail  which  early  grief  has  drawn  over  it. 

.Mrs.  Nealy  was  deterred  from  publishing  any  thing  during  her  youth,  and  for  sev 
eral  years  after  her  marriage,  by  excessive  distrust  of  her  own  abilities,  and  an  undue 
fear  of  the  censure  of  the  literary  world.  Her  diffidence  may  in  part  at  least  be  at 
tributed  to  her  lonely  childhood,  and  in  part,  no  doubt,  to  her  sense  of  the  defective- 
n<-»  of  her  early  education.  To  these  more  than  to  any  feeling  of  natural  inability 
or  inferiority,  may  be  referred  her  studious  avoidance  of  the  public  applause  or  censure 
likely  to  follow  the  first  appearance  of  a  young  author. 

Her  poems,  always  written  in  haste,  and  under  circumstances  utterly  at  war  with 
all  our  notions  of  study  and  reflection — in  the  midst  of  the  labors  and  cares  and  per 
plexities  of  her  domestic  affairs,  were  received  with  very  general  favor ;  and  she  was 
soon  heard  and  recognized  by  the  literary  world  as  worthy  of  an  association  with  the 
gifted  children  of  song.  The  Louisville  Journal,  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  the 
Southern  Lady's  Book,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Scott's  Weekly,  and  other  journals,  re 
ceived  and  welcomed  the  new  poet  to  their  columns ;  and  were  in  turn  enriched  and 
made  better  worthy  of  public  regard  by  the  contributions  of  her  mind.  Through 
these  channels  "  The  Little  Shoe  "  and  other  poems  found  their  way  into  the  British 
papers.  It  is  not  saying  too  much,  to  affirm  that  they  are  worthy  of  all  the  consider 
ation  they  have  received. 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE. 

I  FOUND  it  here — a  worn-out  shoe, 
All  mildew'd  with  time  and  wet  with  dew ; 
'Tis  a  little  thing; — ye  would  pass  it  by 
With  never  a  thought,  or  word,  or  sigh ; 
Yet  it  stirs  in  my  spirit  a  hidden  well, 
And  in  eloquent  tones  of  the  past  doth  tell. 

It  tells  of  a  little  fairy  form 
That  bound  my  heart  with  a  magic  charm; 
Of  bright  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
That  ever  shed  joy  and  sunlight  there; 
Of  a  prattling  voice  so  sweet  and  clear, 
And  of  tiny  feet  that  were  ever  near. 

It  tells  of  hopes  that  with  her  had  birth, 
I  )»M-p  buried  now  ki  the  silent  earth  ; 
Of  a  heart  that  had  met  an  answering  tone 
Which  again  is  left  alone — alone! 


Of  days  of  watching  and  anxious  prayer, — 
Of  a  night  of  sorrow  and  dark  despair. 

It  tells  of  a  form  that  is  cold  and  still — 
Of  a  little  mound  upon  yonder  hill, 
That  is  dearer  far,  to  a  mother's  heart, 
Than  the  classic  statues  of  Grecian  art: 
All!  strangers  may  pass  with  a  careless 

air, 
Nor  dream  of  the  hopes  that  are  buried 

there. 

Oh  ye,  who  have  never  o'er  loved  ones 
wept — 

Whose  brightest  hopes  have  ne'er  been 
swept 

Like  the  pure  white  cloud  from  the  morn 
ing  sky — 

Like  the  wreath  of  mist  from  the  mountain 
high — 


1850-60.]                                              MARYE.    NEALY.                                                          479 

Like  the  rainbow,  beaming  a  moment  here, 

And  tales  of  bright  enchantment  weave 

Then  melting  away  to  its  native  sphere  ; 

Of  a  land  whose  promise  they  could  be 

lieve, 

Like  rose  leaves,  loosed  by  the  zephyr's 

And  where   never  a  sound  the  heart  to 

sigh- 

grieve 

Like  that  zephyr  wafting  its  perfume  by  — 

O'er  the  coral  dells  might  float. 

Like  the  wave  that  kisses   some  grateful 

spot, 

For  sorrow  was  all  unknown 

Then  passes  away  —  yet  is  ne'er  forgot  ; 

And  dark  death's  ghastly  fears  ; 

If  your  life  hopes  like  these  have  never 

And   no   yearning   spirit  walked   forth  — 

fled, 

alone  ! 

Then  ye  cannot  know  of  the  tears  I  shed. 

Bewailing  its  fate  like  the  sad  CEnone,* 

Filling  earth  and  air  with  its  bitter  moan, 

Ye  cannot  know  what  a  little  thing 

And  the  heart  with  its  unshed  tears  ! 

From  memory's  silent  fount  can  bring 

The  voice  and  form  that  were  once  so  dear. 

But  ever,  the  whole  day  long, 

Yet  there  are  hearts,  were  they  only  here, 

'Neath  the  morning's  warm,  bright  kiss, 

That  could  feel  with  me  when,  all  wet  with 

Or  the  gentle  night-bird's  love-toned  song, 

dew, 

The  soul  was  full  and  feared  no  wrong  ; 

I  found  it  this  morning  —  this  little  shoe. 

For  it  needed  not  hope  to  bear  it  along 

To  a  day  of  more  perfect  bliss. 

—  — 

And  I  think  those  Western  isles 

Are  the  gems  in  our  Western  sky; 

THE  STARS. 

For  naught  in  our  earth  so  sweetly  smiles, 

Or  if,  for  a  time  some  charm  beguiles, 

SWEET  "islands  of  the  bless'd!" 

The  sad  soul,  sick  of  her  changing  wiles, 

They  dreamed  in  the  olden  time, 

Looks  up  —  for  the  Pure  and  High. 

That  away,  far  away  in  the  distant  West, 

Was  a  land  where  the  weary  so«l  might 

And  now,  as  I  gaze  to-night 

rest, 

On  those  blessed  stars  above, 

Where  love  and  joy,  by   the    hours  ca- 

I  cannot  think  such  a  soft,  sweet  light 

ress'd, 

Is  shed  from   a  land  where  the   mildew 

To  the  sunlit  waves  made  rhyme  : 

blight 

Warns  them,  e'en  at  the  dawning,  to  dread 

Where  the  fields  were  ever  green, 

o/ 

the  flight 

And  the  bright  flowers  did  not  die, 

O 

Of  their  brightest  dreams  of  love. 

And  where,  all  day  long,  'neath  the  eme 

o 

rald  sheen 

It  surely  cannot  be  — 

Of  breezy  forests,  with  meads  between, 

A  light  so  fair  and  pure  ! 

Arid  where  bird-songs  gushed  from  each 

Like  an  islet  of  gold  in  a  sapphire  sea, 

leafy  screen, 

There's  one  that  twinkles  and  says  to  me, 

The  world-worn  soul  might  lie  : 

And  where  in  the  dreamy  eve 
They  might  sail  in  a  pearly  boat, 

*  The  author  is  aware  that  in  Greek  words,  all  the  vow 
els  are  pronounced  distinctly. 

480 


MARY    E.   NEALY. 


[1850-60. 


"  Come  hither!  I've  room  for  scores  like 

thee — 
Thou  art  weary  of  earth,  I'm  sure !  " 

O,  yes  !  I'll  come,  sweet  star ! 

With  my  chosen  few,  to  thee : 
And  then  the  golden  gates  we'll  bar, 
And  be  careful  never  to  leave  them  ajar, 
For  some  I  would  leave  on  the  earth  afar 

Would  be  sure  to  follow  me  ! 


TO  A  LADY. 

LADY,  bright  and  fragrant  flowers 

In  my  garden  bloom, 
Shedding  o'er  my  lone  heart's  altar 

Rich  and  rare  perfume. 
Few  they  are,  yet  life  without  them 

Scarcely  life  would  be, — 
Lady,  yet  among  those  flow'rets 

There  is  room  for  thee. 

Lady,  love  hath  wove  a  garland 

'Round  this  heart  of  mine, 
Friendship  brings  a  few  fair  blossoms 

In  the  wreath  to  twine. 
They  are  more  than  all  the  jewels 

Earth  could  give  to  me — 
Lady,  here,  within  that  garland, 

Is  a  place  for  thee. 

Lady,  some  sweet  stars  are  shining 

O'er  my  lonely  way, 
In  my  spirit's  depths  enshrining 

Friendship's  purest  ray, 
Pouring  beams  of  heaven's  own  gladness 

O'er  my  life's  dark  sea — 
Lady,  'mid  those  radiant  star-gems 

Is  a  home  for  thee. 

Lady,  life  were  like  a  desert, 

Or  a  naked  tree, 
Unattended  by  the  angels, 

Love  and  Sympathy ; 


Some  few  flowers  within  that  desert 

Sweetly  bloom  for  me — 
Lady,  there's  a  vacant  corner 

Waiting  there  for  thee 

Lady,  ever-blooming  garlands 

Round  that  tree  entwine, 
Which  will  live  till  death's  dark  angel 

Stills  this  heart  of  mine. 
Yet  each  new  wreath  meets  a  welcome 

Warm  and  true  from  me — 
Wilt  thou  twine  an  ivy  circlet, 

Lady,  round  my  tree  ? 


UNREST. 

AH,  why  so  sad,  my  soul ! 
Is  not  this  bright  earth   filled  with  lovely 

things  ? 
0,  are  they  shadows,  Father,  from  Thy 

wings 
That  o'er  my  spirit  roll  ? 

Thou'st  planted  in  my  breast 
A  boundless,  deep  and  overflowing  love 
For  all  that's  bright  in  earth  and  heaven 
above, 

And  yet  I  find  no  rest ! 

My  spirit  wanders  lone, 
Yearning  and  striving  for  a  nobler  life, — 
O  tell  me,  tell  me  why  this  ceaseless  strife 

For  that  I  have  not  known. 

Is  it  that  I  have  come 
From  some  more  blessed  world  than  this  ? 

Afar 
Amid  yon  blazing  orbs  is  there  a  star 

Which  is  my  native  home  ? 

O,  take  me  home  once  more ! 
Unloose  again  my  spirit's  mighty  wings, 
Take  off  the  earth-mould  that  around  it 
clings, 

And  let  it  upward  soar. 


1850-60.] 


MARY    E.   NEALY. 


481 


For  now  it  seems  like  one 
Chained  down,  a  captive,  in  a  foreign  land, 
Where  none  its  language  e'er  can  under 
stand, — 

"  Unknowing  and  unknown  !  " 

Ah,  why  is  there  a  deep 
Within  this  soul   which  they  can  never 

sound — 
A  struggling  fountain  bound  beneath  the 

ground, 
Whose  waters  cannot  sleep ! 

My  soul  has  ever  striven 
To  reach  an  elevation  where  its  breath 

not   be  stifled   by  the  mould   be 
neath — 
Where  it  could  dream  of  heaven. 


Might 


But  when  it  upward  springs, 
Forced  by  its  very  godliness  to  soar, 
Some  dark,  invisible  chain  forevermore 

Draws  down  its  yearning  wings. 

0,  will  this  ever  be  ? 
Is  life  naught  but  the   struggling  of  the 

soul 

To  break  the  bars  which  all  its  powers  con 
trol, 
And  gain  its  liberty? 

It  cannot,  cannot  be ! 
For  Thou,  O  God !  art  good  and  wise  and 

just, 
I  will  believe — in  Thee  I  will  have  trust 

That  we  may  yet  be  free — 

That  every  yearning  soul 
Shall  find  its  own  Utopia,  which  is  heaven — 
That  all  which  now  is  void  will  then  be 
given 

Full,  free,  without  control — 

That  not  one  chain  shall  bind 
Th'  enfranchised  spirit — that  its  brightest 
dreams 


Will  change  to  life  in  heaven's  refulgent 

beams — 
The  life  it  longs  to  find. 

0  let  me  always  think 
That  this  will  be !  Were  it  a  thousand  years, 
I  could  bear  all  life's  longings,  all  its  fears, 

At  such  a  fount  to  drink, — 

To  quench  the  burning  thirst 
That  oft  has  raged  within   this   heart  of 

mine, 
For  weary  years,  and  met  no  answering 

sign, 
Till  it  has  almost  burst ! 

Father,  I  do  believe 

This  will  be  so.     And  in  this  faith  I'll  live, 
And  strive,  and  bear,  and  suffer,  and  forgive, 

And  long  no  more,  nor  grieve. 


"DO  I  LOVE  HIM?" 

Do  I  love  him  ?     Why  should  brightness 

Like  a  tide  of  glory  beam 
O'er  what  once  was  dull  and  irksome — 

Darkened  glen  and  shaded  stream ! 
Why  like  some  gay  lark  up-springing, 

Does  my  spirit  greet  the  sun? 
While  my  heart  keeps  singing,  singing, 

Till  the  Eden  day  is  done — 
Is  this  because  I  love  him? 

Do  I  love  him  ?     One  soft  evening, 

When  the  moon  among  the  flowers 
Shed  her  wealth  of  light  and  shadow — 

Ebon  clouds  and  silver  showers ! — 
We  were  walking — both  were  silent — 

When  a  pure  white  rose  he  brake, 
Kissed  it  once,  then  gave  it  to  me, 

Trembled  I,  but  never  spake — 

Was  this  because  I  loved  him  ? 


31 


MARY    E.   NEALY 


[1850-60. 


He  is  gone.     Yet  I  am  happy, 

For  I  know  he'll  come  again  ; 
Like  a  bird  in  fragrant  bower 

Sing  I,  let  it  shine  or  rain. 
All  things  in  the  heaven  above  me, — 

Every  thing  on  earth  beneath, 
Seems  to  whisper  "  He  does  love  me."- 

Words  to  me  he  did  not  breathe — 
0 !  it  must  be  that  I  love  him! 


ADA. 

LOVELY  little  blossom 

Of  the  darkened  earth, 
Chasing  from  my  bosom 

Sadness  with  thy  mirth ; 
Brightest  sunbeam,  wreathing 

'Round  my  clouded  life ! 
Sweetest  song-bird,  breathing 

Balm  for  all  its  strife ! 

How  the  quick  light  falling 

Of  thy  sinless  feet, 
And  that  clear  voice,  calling 

"  Mother,"  soft  and  sweet, 
Banish  deepest  sorrow 

From  my  heart  and  brow, 
Lifting  up  to-morrow 

Hope-crowned,  from  dark  now ! 

Earth  is  filled  with  beauties, 

Mountain,  stream  and  wold ; 
Life  is  filled  with  duties 

Stern,  and  dark,  and  cold. 
Yet  when  all  is  dreary 

In  the  aching  breast, 
Nature  to  the  weary 

Never  can  give  rest. 

But  there  is  a  healing 
For  the  wounded  soul ; 

'Tis  when  'round  it  stealing 
Love's  soft  murmurs  roll. 


This  which  wreathes  the  mountain 
With  its  sweet  romance  ; 

This  which  makes  the  fountain 
Diamond-like  to  glance. 

And  the  love  of  childhood 

Flows  like  yon  pure  stream, 
Shaded  by  the  wild-wood, 

Free  from  passion's  gleam, 
Gushing,  rippling,  welling 

From  the  fount  above, 
To  the  lone  heart  telling 

Life, — yes,  life  is  love  ! 

Then  my  own  bright  Ada, 

Though    earth's  simoom-breath 
Sink,  like  some  Armada, 

All  my  hopes  in  death, 
If  but  thou  art  near  me, 

Though  all  else  be  gone, 
Darling,  never  fear  me, 

I  can  still  live  on ! 


VALENTINE. 

As  the  sparkling  wavelet,  tripping 

O'er  the  rocks  in  playful  glee, 
As  the  joyous  sunlight,  tipping 

With  bright  hues  the  dark  old  tree, 
As  the  moon's  soft  splendor  streaming 

O'er  the  dark  and  trembling  sea — 
Light,  bright  light  through  darkness  beam 
ing 

Is  thy  smile,  dear  one,  to  me. 

But,  as  on  those  wavelets  gliding, 

Leave  the  rocks  to  weep  and  mourn, 
As  the  golden  sunbeams,  hiding, 

Leave  the  tree  of  beauty  shorn, 
As  the  gentle  moon,  declining, 

Leaves  old  ocean's  breast  forlorn, — 
So  my  heart  is  ever  pining, 

When  by  fate  from  thee  I'm  torn. 


ABRAM   SANDERS   PIATT. 


ABRAM  SANDERS  PIATT  is  more  generally  known  to  the  political  than  the  poetical 
world.  The  two  pursuits,  so  wide  apart  as  they  are,  seldom  center  in  one  individual. 
Did  Mr.  Piatt  seriously  follow  either,  this  would  not  probably  be  the  fact  in  this  in 
stance.  But  the  happy  possessor  of  broad  acres — and  beautiful  acres  they  are — in 
the  Macacheek  Valley,  Logan  county,  Ohio,  he  dallies  with  the  muses,  and  worries  the 
politicians  more  for  amusement  than  aught  else.  His  serious  moments  are  given  to 
the  care  of  an  interesting  family,  and  the  cultivation  of  his  farm.  No  one  of  any  re 
finement  could  long  dwell  in  the  Macacheek  Valley  and  not  feel  more  or  less  of  the 
poetry  that  seems  to  live  in  its  very  atmosphere.  So  rare  a  combination  of  plain  and 
hill,  wood  and  meadow,  adorned  by  the  deep  clear  glittering  stream  that  gives  name 
to  the  valley,  seldom  greets  the  eyes.  There,  the  hawthorn  and  hazel  gather  in 
clumps  upon  the  sloping  hill-sides,  or  upon  fields,  while,  like  great  hosts,  the  many- 
tinted  forests  of  burr-oak,  maple  and  hickory  close  in  on  every  side  the  view. 

Nor  is  the  Macacheek  without  its  legends  and  historical  associations.  Men  yet 
live,  rough  old  backwoodsmen,  with  heads  whitened  by  the  snows  of  eighty  winters, 
who  will  point  out  the  precise  spot  where  a  poor  Indian  woman,  seen  lurking 
about  the  smoking  ruins  of  the  Macacheek  towns,  only  then  destroyed  by  the  white 
invaders,  was  shot  by  a  rifleman,  who  mistook  her  for  a  warrior. 

Near  the  Piatt  homestead  may  be  seen  the  spot  where  Simon  Kenton  was  forced 
by  his  cruel  enemies  to  run  the  gantlet,  when  between  lake  and  river  lay  a  vast  un 
broken  wilderness.  It  was  near  this,  that  he  and  Girty,  the  renegade,  recognized 
each  other,  and  the  hard  heart  of  the  murderer  was  touched  at  the  sight  of  his  old 
comrade  and  friend,  and  he  saved  his  life  at  a  time  when  this  bold  act  endangered  his 
own. 

The  family  to  which  Mr.  Piatt  belongs  is  one  of  the  pioneer  families  of  the  Mad 
River  Valley,  and  has  prominent  association  with  the  literature  and  politics  of  the 
West.  Bonn  Piatt,  his  brother,  is  well  known  as  a  writer  and  political  orator.  Car 
rie  Piatt,  a  niece,  has  contributed  popular  articles  in  both  prose  and  verse  to  Western 
Magazines ;  and  John  J.  Piatt,  a  nephew,  of  whom  notice  is  hereafter  taken  in  these 
pages,  is  one  of  the  young  poets  of  the  West,  from  whom  much  is  expected. 

A.  Sanders  Piatt's  poems  have  been  published  chiefly  in  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Com 
mercial  and  in  the  Macacheek  Press,  a  sprightly  weekly  paper,  published  at  West 
Liberty,  of  which  he  is  now  the  editor. 


(483) 


484 


A.    SANDERS    PIATT. 


[1850-60. 


THE  DAINTY  BEE. 

THE  dainty  bee  'mid  waxen  cells 
Of  golden  beauty  ever  dwells 

Arid  dreams  his  life  away ; 
His  food  a  million  flowers  caught 
From  out  the  sunlight,  as  they  wrought 

Through  spring  and  summer's  day. 

Slothful  bee,  the  spring-time's  morning 

Wakes  him  from  his  winter's  dream, 
Reveler  'mid  the  pleasures  gathered 

From  the  wild-bloom  and  the  stream ; 
But  the  spring-time's  ray  of  gladness 

Calls  him  to  the  fields  again, 
Calls  him  with  the  voice  of  flowers 

Flowing  'mid  the  sunlit  rain. 

Goes  he  to  the  fields  of  plenty, 

Searches  'mid  the  rare  perfume, 
Gathers  honey  from  their  beauty, 

While  he  sings  his  wanton  tune ; 
Filling  'mid  the  sweets  and  fancies 

That  o'erburthen  all  the  air, 
Gathering  dainties  for  the  palace 

That  the  queenly  group  may  share. 

Drunk  with  treasures,  overladened, 

Slow  he  wings  his  way  along, 
Gladdens  all  the  scenes  with  humming 

O'er  his  dainty  little  song. 
Wanton  bee,  ah  !  busy-body, 

Drinking  from  each  perfumed  cup, 
All  day  straying  in  the  valley 

Gathering  sweets  to  treasure  up. 

Lives  he  in  a  world  of  beauty,  ' 

Floating  on  its  rare  perfume, 
Sipping  May-time's  early  blossoms, 

Reveling  in  the  bed  of  June ; 
In  the  snows  amid  the  clover, 

Dainty  snows,  how  sweet  and  shy ! 
Threaded  with  the  green  of  summer, 

Perfumed  frosts  of  mid  July  ! 

Thy  home  is  Nature's  world-wide  palace, 
Nature's  wild  secluded  ways, 


Lit  with  night's  dews,  dream  of  morning, 
Wakened  with  a  million  rays, 

See  the  sunlight's  silver  fingers, 
Lifting  fragrance  to  the  sky, 

Fill  the  vale  with  many  rare  joys 
As  they  slowly  waft  them  by; 

Scents  the  air,  thy  wings  to  bathe  in, 

Guides  thee  to  the  treasure  pure ; 
Airs  that  play  the  rarest  music, 

For  such  dainty  epicure. 
Labor,  while  the  summer  lingers, 

Labor,  while  the  south-wind  blows, 
Ere  the  North  King,  marching  southward, 

Fills  thy  garden  with  his  snows. 


SING,  CRICKET. 

SING,  cricket,  sing  your  olden  song — 

We'll  have  some  chat  together ; 
The  snow  and  rain,  against  the  pane, 

Proclaim  a  change  of  weather. 
The  long  blue  grass  has  fallen  down, 

Pressed  closely  to  the  earth ; 
There  are  no  summer  spots,  and  snow 

Has  chilled  your  songs  of  mirth. 
The  lily  with  its  gorgeous  leaves, 

Decked  blue  and  white  and  gold, 
Has  crept  back  to  the  earth  again, 

Chilled  with  the  autumn  cold. 
And  thou  art  left,  thou  browny  elf, 

So  come  in  to  the  fire : 
Get  you  into  your  little  cell — 

For  winter  tune  your  lyre  ; 
And  through  its  weary  hours  we'll  sing 

Of  hearts  that  loved  us  well, 
Of  flowers,  and  their  birth  in  spring 

That  weaves  life's  fairy  spell. 

Sing,  cricket,  sing,  from  out  your  cell, 
Thou  hermit  of  the  hearth ; 

More  joy  about  your  songs  doth  dwell 
Than  in  the  wine-cup's  mirth. 


1850-60.] 


A.    SANDERS    PIATT. 


485 


The  busy  housewife  plies  her  cares 

To  duties,  as  they  chime 
To  your  glad  notes  that  cheerful  float, 

And  with  her  footfalls  rhyme. 

Sing,  cricket,  sing ;  old  sympathies 

Make  more  than  palace  halls 
Of  hearth-lit  scenes  that  round  me  rise 

And  drape  the  cottage  walls 
With  pictures  of  the  past  so  true : 

They  flow  from  out  thy  chimes — 
As  here  you  cite  their  wonders  o'er, 

Thou  chronicler  of  times. 

Thou  necromancer  of  the  hearth, 

As  waves  thy  mystic  wand, 
Its  spells  invoke  the  genii  of 

The  summer's  fairy  band, 
Who  in  their  winter  cells  do  dwell, 

The  nestlings  of  the  earth, 
And  spread  their  leaves  upon  the  air 

When  spring  to  love  gives  birth. 

So  tell  thy  sunny  wanderings, 

Their  harvest  treasure  fling 
From  fields  of  russet,  ripened  grain, 

When  chimed  the  bells  you  ring 
At  the  wedding  of  the  flowers, 

Unto  a  cunning  fay, 
Who  caught  from  sunlight  colors  rare 

To  robe  them  while  they  stay. 

Sing,  cricket,  sing ;  your  merry  chirps 

Tell  o'er  the  pleasant  days 
That  down  the  stream  of  time  have  gone ; 

Your  song  their  joy  portrays, 
That  gathered  round  the  heart  to  win 

The  moment's  golden  dust — 
Where  all  life's  duties  thronging  came 

With  faith  and  love  and  trust 

Sing,  cricket,  sing ;  within  my  heart 
Are  cells  thy  song  doth  thrill, 

With  faces  that  from  memory  start, 
The  vacant  seats  to  fill. 


Around  my  soul  their  arms  are  twined, 

Like  angel  wings  that  lift 
The  heart  from  sin,  with  gentle  words — 

Spirits,  of  hearth-stone  gift. 

Softly  sing  of  chilly  showers 

That  damped  the  genial  flame, 
And  took  bright  lights  from  off  the  hearth, 

That  left  us  all  in  pain, 
Though  not  alone:  the  absent  ones 

Yet  dwell  within  our  heart, 
And  ever  as  thy  song  doth  ring 

To  life  they  warmly  start. 


DAISIE. 

COULD  you  but  list  the  waterfall, 

Its  laughing,  willful  song ! 
How  years  now  gone  its  tones  recall, 

While  gurgling  swift  along ! 
It  tells  thy  name — its  words  repeat 

(The  past  lives  o'er  in  this) 
The  quickening  of  thy  heart's  soft  beat, 

When  parting  from  my  kiss. 

Ah,  Daisie !  know  the  birds  yet  sing, 

Above  the  water's  flow ; 
They  warble  blithely,  on  the  wing, 

Of  times  now  long  ago. 
While  flitting  there,  sweet  Daisie  dear, 

They  stole  thy  heart's  song-nest ; 
To  me  'tis  left  but  to  revere 

The  birds  and  streams  so  bless'd. 

Another  love  has  won  thy  heart, 

But  not  thy  gentle  ways : 
They  live  within  these  scenes  apart, 

The  theme  of  other  days. 
Ah,  it  is  mine ;  the  birds  and  stream 

Yet  tell  it  o'er  to  me  ; 
How  sweet  it  is !  though  but  a  dream 

Within  my  heart  to  be. 


WILLIAM   P.  BRANNAN. 


WILLIAM  PENN  BRANXAX  is  the  only  poet-painter,  native  to  Ohio,  of  whom  we 
have  knowledge.  He  was  born  at  Cincinnati,  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  March,  in 
the  year  1825.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  and  his  early  opportunities  for  education 
were  limited.  He  is  not  only  self-instructed  as  a  scholar,  but  as  a  portrait  and  land 
scape  painter,  and  he  has  good  reason  not  to  be  ashamed  of  his  teacher.  Mr.  Bran- 
nan  is  a  regular  poetical  contributor  to  several  leading  literary  journals,  and  is  the 
author  of  humorous  sketches  in  prose,  which  have  been  read  wherever  American 
newspapers  are  circulated.  He  is  at  present  practicing  his  art  in  Chicago.  It  is 
understood  that  he  is  preparing  an  elaborate  poem  for  publication  in  a  volume. 


THE  SOUL'S  HERMITAGE. 

I  HAVE  a  hermitage  of  common  clay, 
Wherein  are  treasures  neither  rich  nor 
rare, 

Yet  sacred  relics  to  my  life  are  they, 
And  hoarded  up  in  secret  caskets  there. 

My  pilgrim  soul  resides  there  all  alone, — 

Its  weary  years  of  wild  unrest  are  o'er ; 

Now  soiled  and  travel-worn  from  many  a 

zone, 

And   vain  researches  on   the  sea  and 
shore. 

No  prying  eyes  look  through  the  portals 

there — 
No  shameless  pleasure  tempts  the  soul 

within  ; 

1)'  -pair  without,  must  still  remain  despair; 
I  have  no  room  for  any  pleading  sin. 

In  dim  past  shadows  of  a  distant  morn, 

I  still  can  see  the  budding  of  my  years, 
Still  hear  my  hopeful  songs  or  sighs  for 


lorn, 

Still  see  the  rainbow  in 
tears. 


life: 


s  morning 


Within  this  hermitage  my  sleepless  soul 
Lives  o'er  again  the  stormy  years  of  life, 

And  nerves  itself  for  that  eternal  goal 
Where  puny   man   ends   all  his  petty 
strife  ; — 

Lives  o'er  again  the  wild,  enchanting  prime 
That  played  with  golden  gladness  through 

my  brain, 

And  swept  with  dire  alarms,  or  thrills  sub 
lime 
The  diapason  of  all  joy  and  pain. 

I  entertain  no  stranger  unaware 

Within  my  soul's  most  secret  solitude ; 

No  guest  but  Death  may  ever  enter  there — 
No  vandal  foot  shall  ever  dare  intrude. 


No  one  can  share  in  all  my  bliss  or  woe ; 

No  eye  may  see  my  rapture  or  despair ; 
On  beggar  palms  no  alms  can  I  bestow 

Of  sacred  relics,  or  of  treasures  rare. 

My  house  of  clay  stands  midway  on  a  slope ; 

Oblivion's  stream  meanders  at  its  base  ; 
Upon  the  summit  of  this  mount  of  Hope 

The  sons  of  Fame  have  found  a  dwell 
ing-place. 


(486) 


W  I  L  L  I  A  M    1> .    B  R  A  N  X  A  N . 


4H7 


1  ne'er  may  write  my   name   upon   their 

scroll, 

Or  see  the  glories  of  their  temple  fair ; 
Yet  I  can   hear  those   thunderous  voices 

roll 

Their  godlike  anthems  through  the  echo 
ing  air. 

I  can  o'erlook  the  world  a  little  way, 
See  isles   of  palm  and  blooms  forever 

sweet, 
Behold  the  rising  of  the  orient  day, 

And  sing  low  murmurs  in  my  safe  re 
treat. 

O  blessed  midland  of  my  soul's  domain, 
Secure    retreat    from    envy,    hate    and 
scorn ; 

Here  let  me  close  my  simple  hermit  reign, 
And  rest  in  quiet  till  the  coming  morn. 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  ROAD. 

WINDING  through  the  everglade, 
Where  my  school-boy  scenes  were  laid ; 
Near  the  meadow  where  the  bees 
Tell  their  thefts  to  evejy  breeze ; 
Where  the  woodland  flowers  bloom, 
Wasting  all  their  sweet  perfume  ; 
Passing  by  a  cottage  door, 
Now,  alas,  my  home  no  more ; 
Leading  to  the  house  of  God, 
Is  the  blessed  Old  Church  Road. 

Ambushed  in  a  bower  of  green, 
Yonder  spire  is  dimly  seen, 
Like  a  sentry  from  on  high 
Pointing  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
In  that  pleasant  ambuscade, 
Checkered  with  the  sun  and  shade, 
Stands  the  church  where  first  I  trod 
In  the  way  that  leads  to  God  ; 


Now  I  drag  life's  weary  load 
Up  along  the  Old  Church  Road. 

I  have  come  to  see  once  more 

The  dear  haunts  I  loved  of  yore ; 

Comrades  of  my  early  years, 

Where  are  now  your  smiles  and  tears — 

Smiles  of  welcome,  tears  of  joy, 

Greeting  home  the  long  lost  boy  ? 

Silence  palls  my  listening  ear, 

No  familiar  sound  is  here. 

On  the  grave-stone  gray  and  cold 

The  sad  tale  is  briefly  told ; 

They  have  spent  their  latest  breath 

In  the  holiday  of  death  ; 

Tired  with  life,  they  fell  asleep 

Leaving  me  alone  to  weep, 

Who  would  fain  lay  down  life's  load 

With  them,  near  the  Old  Church  Road. 

Cruel  mem'ry,  let  me  deem 

This  is  but  an  idle  dream ! 

There  was  one — oh,  heart,  be  still ! — 

Wont  to  wander  near  the  rill, 

Murmuring  yet  along  the  glade 

Where  our  plighted  vows  were  made  — 

There  was  one,  the  maiden  queen, 

Reigning  o'er  this  sylvan  scene, 

Who  had  strayed  from  paradise, 

With  the  splendor  of  its  skies 

Sleeping  in  her  dewy  eyes. 

Never  more  must  I  rejoice 

In  the  music  of  her  voice  ? 

Must  the  pilgrim's  lonely  tread 

Wake  but  echoes  o'er  the  dead, 

As  he  nears  his  last  abode, 

On  the  blessed  Old  Church  Road  ? 

Where  the  modest  violets  bloom 
In  the  shadow  of  her  tomb, 
Shall  the  wayworn  wanderer  rest, 
Deeming  death  a  welcome  guest  ? 
Life's  last  sleep  were  passing  sweet 
Where  his  dust  with  thine  shall  meet — 
There,  beneath  the  self-same  sod, 
Lay  him,  near  the  Old  Church  Road. 


w  i  i.i.iAM    r.  1:1;  VNNAN. 


[I860  SO, 


YOUTH. 

A  STRAIN,  like  songs  of  dying  swans — 
A  fragment  of  forgotten  rhyme — 

A  vision  ot'  the  ghoMly  dawns. 
That  \\okr  me  in  the  olden  tinu1 

To  hopoles.x  !o\o  ami  cruel  scorns, 
And  thoughts  of  untorgiven  crime. 

Thus  come  tho  memories  of  the  past. 
With  failed  light  and  smothered  joys  ; 

With  daring  hopes,  too  bright  to  last, 
A\  it h  peals  of  fame — now  empty  noise, 

With  high  aspirings,  grand  and  vast, 
My  hopeless  soul  no  more  enjoys. 

Like  Indian  Summer's  azure  air, 
And  mnsie  heard  in  holy  dreams — 

Like  \oiees  lost  in  silent  prayer. 

And  murmurings  of  di>tant  streams, 

tome  back  those  days,  when  life  was  fair. 
With  mutlled  sounds  and  ha/y  gleams. 

Within  my  soul  the  memory  preys; 

M\   K»t  youth  was  a  dream  ot'  fame. 
Those  halt-forgotten,  wilderiug  days, 

When  I,  too,  sought  to  win  a  name, 
(Jive  but  the  phantom  sounds  of  praise 

The  knell  of  what  1  lain  would  claim. 


KIT  KNTANVK. 

OH  !  human  souls,  throw  wide  your  doors! 

A  fellow  mortal  plead-  his  pain; 
With  anguish  bowed  he  fain  implores 

His  prayer  be  not  in  vain. 

Some  drops  of  lit  avenly  pity  shed 
O'er  erring  souls  that  go  astray, 

Lift  up  a  drooping  brother's  head 
And  point  the  better  way. 


O  boast  not  loudly  nor  elate 

Thy  power  o'er  sin  and  human  wrong. 
Thy  strength  to  show  thy  brother's  fate, 

Thy  faith  and  virtue  strong. 

For  know,  a  man  of  gentlest  mould 
Some  giant  MU  may  lead  astray. 

With  mighty  power  and  demon  hold. 
With  lieive  and  fiendish  swav. 

O,  gentle  hearts,  throw  wide  vonr  doors. 
And  let  the  pleading  stranger  in  ; 

A  wayworn  pilgrim  tain  implores 
Release  from  shame  and  sin. 


HOMELESS. 

I   HAVK  a  borne  no  more.     The   humble 

eot. 
That,  like   a   modest  bride   half  hid   in 

tlowers. 
Smiled  all  its  blessings  on  life's  morning 

hours, 
Has    passed    from    earth — now    strangers 

own  the  spot. 
The  guardian  power  that   holds  my  life  in 

trust, 
Still    shows    the   picture    to  my   loving 

view, 
And  paints  the  blessed  forms,  to  meiu'rv 

true, 

Vhieh  long  have  slept  in  consecrated  dust. 
Ml  things  have  changed — my  home  is  home 

no  more — 

The   favorite   haunts  where   hopes,  de 
spairs,  and  loves 
Once  circled  round   my  soul  like  cottage 

dovea, 

'he  glass  of  Fancy  only  can  restore. 
The     alien     plowshare,     for     unnumbered 

y<  ars, 

las    made    deep    furrows    for   my    bitter 
tears. 


BENJAMIN  T.  GUSHING. 


BI:N.JAMJ\  Tr  i-i'i.ii  CO.IILVG  was  }>orn  at  Putnam,  Mu.-kingurn  county,  Oliio,  on 
the  twenty-sixth  day  of  January,  1825.  JJis  ancestors  were  among  the  pionee 
r-en  lcrs  of  the  North-\Ve.-t ; — Uufus  Putnam  arid  Benjamin  Tupper,  of  the  maternal 
.stor-k,  having,  at  the  close  of  the  war  for  Independence,  settled  at  Marietta,  while  hi- 
paternal  ancestors  early  emigrated  from  Plymouth,  Massachusetts,  to  the  central  part 
of  the  State  of  New  York.  His  father,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  year-,  came  to  Ohio, 
arid  settled  at  Putnam.  When  five  years  of  age,  Benjamin  was  placed  at  school  at 
Marietta.  Drilled  with  a  class  of  boys  superior  to  hirn-'-lf  in  re-pect.  of  J&Oft  and 
mental  discipline,  he  tired  of  the  class  routine,  and  sought  for  himself  a  course  of  study 
more  spirited  and  congenial.  At  the  age  of  twelve,  upon  the  removal  of  his  father's 
family  to  Wi^con-in,  lie  entered  a  printing-office  at  Milwaukee.  In  1830  he  returned 
to  Ohio,  and  pursued  his  trade  in  the  Ohio  State  Journal  office,  at  Colombo*.  An 
eagerness  to  read  whatever  fell  in  his  way,  and  a  searching  inqui.-,itiveness  as  to  the 
reasons  for  opinions  expressed  by  author-  who-e  work.-  lie  peru-ed,  berime  habit.-,  of 
hi-  character.  The  result  was  a  constant  tendency  to  clothe  with  verse  the  offspring 
of  his  quaint  and  sleepless  fancy,  and  many  hundred  folio  pages,  then  written,  bear 
witness  to  its  fertility  and  range,  if  not  to  its  cultivation  arid  di.-ciplirie.  At  Milwaukee 
and  elsewhere,  his  verses  were  welcomed  by  the  Pres-,  and  answered  with  cordial  en 
couragement  of  the  author's  aspirations.  The  turning-point  in  his  career  came  -ud- 
denly  and  decisively.  An  incident,  in  itself  unimportant,  furnished  the  spur  to  his 
forming  purpose,  and  gave  birth  to  the  idea  of  a  sacred  poem,  which  thenceforth 
became  a  vital  element  in  his  plans,  and  rapidly  unfolded  the  deep  arid  tender  sympa 
thies  that  pervaded  his  character.  Re-olved  at  la-t  to  fit  himself  for  a  station  where 
he  might  "at  least  enjoy  the  society,  if  he  might  not  partake  of  free  converse  with 
educated  minds,"  he  left  the  printing-office.  Within  eighteen  months  he  completed 
the  freshman  and  sophomore  routine  of  classical  study,  and  entered  the  junior  cla—  of 
Marietta  College,  in  1844.  His  college  career  realized  hi-  ambition.  He  continued 

his  analysis  of  the   Briti.-h  cla--ic fini-hed  the   Iliad  and   <  >  ;gether  with  a 

partial  law  cour-e,  and  graduated  with  the  highest  honor-  of  his  class.  He  studied 
law  with  Jo-eph  R.  Swan  and  John  W.  Andrews,  at  Columbu-,  during  the  year  1*  \1 . 
Upon  adrni.-siori  to  the  bar,  he  practiced  his  prof<--ion  for  a  few  months  in  the  office 
of  Salmon  P.  Chase,  at  Cincinnati,  but  returned  to  Columbu-,  during  the  year  It  I*. 
for  the  purpose  of  making  it  a  place  of  permanent  residence.  He  had  entered  upon 
his  profe-.-iori  with  energy,  while  at  the  same  time  pur-uing  hi-  literary  ta-t<--  into 
the  choiee-t  fields  of  pro-e  and  verse,  and  had  ju-t  begun  to  enjoy  the  long-coveted 
access  to  men  of  cultivation,  and  a  wide-spread  credit  as  a  good  writer,  through  con 
tributions  to  the  standard  magazines  of  the  country,  when  bronchial  difficultie-  inter- 

(  4- 


490  BENJAMIN    T.    GUSHING.  [1850-60. 

rupted  the  regular  practice  of  his  profession.  He  devoted  several  seasons  to  their 
removal,  returning,  after  brief  intervals  of  medical  treatment,  to  his  literary  and  legal 
studies.  The  former  began  more  fully  to  interest  his  attention,  and  challenge  his 
energies.  Though  many  qualities  of  his  mind  conspired  to  make  him  more  uniformly 
a  good  prose  writer,  the  field  wherein  his  hopes  were  garnered  was  that  of  verse. 
Here,  however,  the  rapidity  of  his  education  had  left  his  discipline  imperfect,  and  he 
felt  that  he  wrote  too  copiously  for  that  perfection  of  style  which  he  made  his  aim. 
Thus,  when  emotion  was  wanting,  his  hurried  verses  became  artistic  only,  or  merely 
common-place.  But  when  the  heart  was  touched,  he  wrote  with  taste  and  power. 
In  the  midst  of  self-examination  and  discipline,  the  cherished  idea  of  his  sacred  poem 
gained  new  favor,  and  he  regretted  more  and  more  that  he  had  not  selected  the  sacred 
ministry  as  his  profession — that  thus  he  might  have  been  brought  more  intimately 
near  the  subject  of  his  epic. 

During  the  fall  of  1849,  Mr.  Cushing's  bronchial  difficulties  returned,  and  in  the 
January  following,  he  visited  Wilmington,  North  Carolina,  to  seek,  in  a  change  of 
climate,  their  relief.  Hitherto,  he  had  been  cheerful  under  all  trials,  but  the  im 
pression  that  he  must  die  young,  at  length  broke  with  crushing  weight  upon  his  spirits, 
and  for  a  few  days  he  failed  rapidly.  The  "  Lay  of  the  Improvisatrice,"  a  poem  of 
rare  excellence,  pathos  and  beauty,  then  written,  tells  plainly  the  feeling  that  op 
pressed  him. 

"  The  Christiad  " — the  title  which  he  had  given  his  sacred  poem — now  engrossed 
his  attention.  Shapes  and  scenes  startled  into  being  by  the  influence  of  Milton, 
Dante,  Homer,  and  Swedenborg,  and  to  which  he  had  given  whole  nights  of  earnest 
contemplation — imagery  and  sentiment,  gathered  from  observation  and  reflection,  now 
rose  before  his  mind  like  realities.  The  Bible,  long  studied  in  its  relations  to  his 
theme,  became  his  constant  companion.  The  prophecies  were  examined,  and  their 
harmony  with  the  Saviour's  character  brought  into  requisition  to  enrich  the  sentiment 
"  made  perfect  through  suffering."  Urgent  appeals  to  dismiss  care  and  consult  health 
only,  were  answered  cheerfully,  but  in  the  spirit  of  his  labors.  At  length,  finding  the 
Atlantic  breezes  only  prejudicial,  he  tried  the  hydropathic  treatment,  at  Brattleboro, 
Vermont,  but  without  benefit.  Pulmonary  disease  had  already  fastened  upon  his 
vitals.  But  the  mind  was  still  active — too  active.  The  night  itself  was  made  his 
servant,  and,  as  before  leaving  home,  so  at  Brattleboro,  he  would  suddenly  start  from 
bed  to  record  the  more  fantastic  and  less  studied  fancies  that  played  through  the  mind 
while  the  body  courted  repose.  He  spent  a  month  with  friends  at  Wallingford,  Con 
necticut,  and  though  too  ill  to  pursue  methodically  his  "  Christiad,"  still  indulged  in 
random  verses.  He  left  Wallingford  early  in  September,  and,  after  a  long  journey, 
reached  his  native  home,  still  full  of  hope  and  mental  vigor,  though  sinking  rapidly  to 
the  grave. 

Such  is  the  faint  outline  of  a  life  devoted  to  a  single  purpose,  and  one  demanding 
for  its  fruition  the  energy  of  a  mature  life.  Its  greatness  was  appreciated,  and  for  its 
greatness  he  followed  it,  confident  that  he  might  at  least  realize  a  high  cultivation  and 
noble  acquirements  in  its  pursuit.  In  the  community  where  he  lived,  he  was  regarded 


1850-60.] 


BENJAMIN    T.    GUSHING. 


491 


as  a  man  of  good  talents,  energy,  and  perseverance,  and  his  manly  aspirations  inter 
ested  many  in  his  success.  His  character  was  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  true  religion. 
To  its  claims  he  sacrificed  first  impulses,  if  they  shrank  from  a  test  by  its  standard. 
From  its  sacred  oracles  he  drew  the  great  lesson  of  our  probation.  In  its  precious 
encouragements,  his  hope  brightened.  In  its  anticipated  future,  he  had  a  foretaste  of 
his  reward.  In  the  study  of  the  perfections  and  earthly  experience  of  its  Author,  he 
prepared  for  nobler  and  loftier  ascriptions  of  praise  to  his  divine  Redeemer.  He 
lingered  but  a  few  weeks  at  Putnam ;  yet  his  last  thoughts  were  upon  his  life's  great 
hope ;  and  the  disposal  of  the  unfinished  "  Christiad "  was  the  burden  of  his  last 
whisper,  as  the  spirit  for  a  moment  lingered,  then  took  its  upward  flight.  May  we 
not  justly  repeat  the  sentiment  so  beautifully  addressed  by  himself  to  the  mother  by 
whose  side  we  laid  his  remains  ?  He  "  has  learned  the  poetry  of  heaven  from  the 
lyres  of  the  archangels  ! " 


LAY  OF  THE  IMPROVISATRICE. 

"  THE  spell  of  Death  is  on  me ! "  I  have 

heard 
In  dreams  the  rustling  of  his  shadowy 

wing 

Above  me  like  a  prophecy  !     The  bird 
That  wakes  his  carol  in  the  breath  of 

Spring, 

Knows  not  more  surely  that  his  joy  is  nigh 
Than  my  sick  spirit  that  I  soon  must  die  ! 

My  eye  is  bright,  they  tell  me,  and  my 

cheek 

Wears  still  the  rosy  color  that  it  wore 
When  life's  full  tide  glowed  through  each 

pulse,  to  speak 
In  eye  and  cheek  as  they  shall  speak  no 

more ; 

It  is  a  feverish  brightness — day  by  day 
The  inward   fire   consumes   my  strength 

away ! 

Time  was  when  I  had  sighed  to  leave  the 

earth, 
With  all  its  beautiful  and  glorious  things ; 


Its   babbling  streams,  its   music   and   its 

mirth, 

Its  pastures  green,  and  birds  with  rain 
bow  wings ; 

Hope  was  beside  me  then,  and  from  her 
eyes, 

My  spirit  borrowed  all  their  iris  dyes  ! 

I  walked  upon  the  mountain  like  a  nymph, 
Drinking  the  breeze  arid  nourishing  the 
flowers 

With  dews  as  lucent  as  the  crystal  lymph ; 
With  joy  I  trod  the   shadowy  noontide 
bowers ; 

Bright  smiled  young  Evening  through  her 
twilight  bars, 

And  I  beheld  glad  spirits  in  the  stars, 

That  held  communion  with  me — and  my 

soul 

Had  its  deep  thoughts  and  dreams  un 
utterable 
In  common  language — and    I   dared  the 

goal 

Of  poesy — filled  the  bright  goblet  full 
Of  the  delirious  wine,  and  deeply  quaffed 
The  inspiration  of  the  glorious  draught ! 


492 


BENJAMIN    T .    C  U  S  H I N  G . 


[1850-60. 


I  longed  to  be  immortal ;  longed  to  be 
Like   Sappho,  early  lost ! — or  Hemans, 
gone 

In  light  eternal — and  weave  minstrelsy 
Such  as  could  charm  to  life  th'  "Undy 
ing  One," 

Or  that   bright   spirit's,  who,  on   Avon's 
shore, 

Made  Avon's  swans   "deem    Shakspeare 
lived  once  more  ! " 

But  not  alone  my  fancy  soared  to  reach 
The  heaven  of  Invention — there  was  one 

Whose  lightest  whisper  to  my  soul  could 

teach 
A  thrilling  music — one  whose  every  tone 

Came  o'er  my  spirit  like  the  fitful  wing 

Of  the  soft  zephyr  o'er  th'  JEolian  string ! 

In  my  gay  rambles  at  the  morn  or  eve 
He  wandered  by  my  side — knew  all  my 
dreams 

Of  passion  or  of  poesy — could  grieve 
When  I  did  grieve — joy  in  my  joy's  glad 
streams  ; 

He  sought  my  flowers,  foreran  my  slight 
est  want, 

Nor  asked  return  save  what  my  love  could 
grant ! 

My  love  I  gave — and  thenceforth  he  be 

came 

Part  of  my  being — for  the  child  of  song 
Loves  not  with  common  fervor — the  rich 

flame 

Blazes  at  once  intense  and  trebly  strong; 
Destined  to  prove,  in  its  ethereal  fire, 
A  heavenly  beacon  or  a  funeral  pyre ! 

Mine  was  absorbing  as  the  air  of  light, 
The  flower  of  dew — the  earth  of  sum 
mer  rain — 

I  lived  but  in  his  presence  ;  all  my  bright 
And  beauteous  dreams  were  clustered  in 

his  train  ; 

For  him  I  wished  to  pluck  Corinna's  crown, 
Or  draw  the  glorious  notes  of  angels  down ! 


Nay  more — I   promised  to  forswear  the 

wreath 

For  which  I  panted — 'tend  his  humble 
cot; 

Drive  home  his  bleating  kine  across  the 

heath — 

The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  for 
got! 

Blessed  in  his  smile  forego  all  else  beside, 

And  lose  a  kingdom  to  become  his  bride  ! 

But  he  betrayed  his  trust  and  left  my  side, 
Won  by  a  golden  charm  and  simpering 

tongue, 
To  woo  a  richer — not  a  fairer  bride, 

And  I  was  now  alone !    The  chords  that 

rung 

With  music  and  with  joy  were  torn  apart — 
My  lips  were  silent;  but  it  broke  my 
heart ! 

The  flowers  have  lost  their  beauty — song 

its  charms — 
The  earth  is  barren — drear  the  frowning 

sky — 

A  bride,  I  give  me  into  death's  cold  arms, 
Yet  cannot  curse  my  murderer  ere  I 

die! 
Farewell,  my  harp — I  swell  thy  strings  no 

more — 
My  dreams  of  Love  and  Fame  are  sadly 

o'er! 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

BY  my  lone  casement  in  the  eve  I'm  sitting 

Looking  far  out  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 

"  Fretted  with  golden  fires,"  while  clouds 

are  flitting 

Across  its  face.    Beneath,  the  forests  lie, 
And  plains  and  hills  in  distance ;  and  the 

falling 
Of  sheeny  waters  flashes  on  my  sight — 


1850-6C. 


BENJAMIN    T.    GUSHING. 


493 


Books  tell  me  that  they  murmur,  but  their 

calling 

Comes  not  to  me — my  ear  is  closed  in 
night ! 

I  oft  have  wondered  what  strange  power  is 

lying 
In  that  mysterious  thing  which  men  name 

sound — 
What  hues  it  paints  upon  the  soul  with 

dying 

So  rich  and  beautiful,  yet  so  profound  ! 
Is  it  something  which  the  ear  in  viewing 
Is  touched  with  rapture,  as  by  flowers 

the  eye  ? 

In  vain  my  fancy  tires  her  wing  pursuing, 
I  cannot  grasp  the  secret  though  I  die ! 


They  point  to  me  the  bird  which  high  is 

winging 

Its  way  where  boughs  float  on  the  sum 
mer  air — 
They  write  me  that  a  gladsome  lay  'tis 

singing. 
Is  its  gay  song,  then,  like  its  plumage 

rare, 
That  shines  in  gold  and  purple  ?    They  do 

tell  me 
The   somber  owl  gives  forth  a  dismal 

call: 
I'm  sure  that  song  could  ne'er  with  rapture 

spell  me — 
It  must  be  like  a  coffin's  mournful  pall. 

I  now  remember  childhood's  sky  was  o'er 

me, 
When  first  I  pondered  how  my  brethren 

there 
In  some  fond  secret  were  far,  far  before 

me; 

And  as  I  pondered,  could  I  but  despair  ? 
Lo,  when  our  mother,  so  serene  and  beau 
teous, 

Moved  her  sweet  lips,  they  seemed  to 
catch  the  bliss, 


And  answer  it  with  smile  and  movements 

duteous — 

I    then    thought    sound   was   like   my 
mother's  kiss. 


As  I  grew  older,  by  the  shore  they  took 

me, 

Where  the  big  wave  came  foaming  to 
ward  the  rock, 
But  whilst  I  stood  there,  they  in  dread 

forsook  me, 
Stopping  their  ears  as  if  they  felt  the 

shock, 

Before  it  came,  of  the  huge  billow  dash 
ing 
Against   the   beach.      Then   I  thought 

there  must  be 
A  feeling  in  their  ears  which  knew   the 

lashing, 

As  did  my  shaken  limbs,  of  the  great 
sea ! 

But  when  all  backward  rolled  that  billow 

teeming, 
They  took  up  from  the  shore  whereon 

'twas  cast, 

A  spiral  shell  of  many-colored  gleaming — 
Red,  yellow,  purple — like  the   clouded 

east ; 
With  joy  we  danced !     Soon  tired  I  of  the 

treasure, 
But    to   their  ears  they  placed  it,  and 

with  glee, 
Again    they    sprang — thence    deemed    I 

sounds  of  pleasure 

Were  like  that  colored  shell  by  the  deep 
sea! 


I  view  the  soldiers  on  their  chief  attend 
ing, 

And  deem  their  war-note  like  their  daz 
zling  march ; 
Goes  it  not  upward  with  the  steed-tramp 

blending, 

And  flaunting,  like  their  banners,  heav 
en's  proud  arch? 


41)4 


BENJ  AM  I  N    T.    GUSHING. 


And  when  the  youth  in  dances  brisk  are 

moving, 
Speeds  not  their  music  like  their  flying 

feet? 
And  have  not  lover's  words  a  power  like 

loving  ? 

And  is  not   beauty's   voice   as   beauty 
sweet  ? 

I  had  a  dream  of  most  supernal  splendor, 
Of  a  green  field  where  gushing  fount 
ains  played, 
And  broad-branched  trees  grew  up,  and 

blossoms  tender, 
'Neath  everlasting  sunbeams;  and  that 

glade 
Was   full   of  winged  creatures  robed    in 

glory  ; 
And  as  they  hovered  o'er  me,  the  rich 

tone 
Of  wind,  and  brook,  and  birdlet,   told  its 

story, 

Like  odors,  to  my  ear !     I  woke,  'twas 
gone. 

I  see  yon  girl  the  lyre's  soft  numbers  steal 
ing— 
I  watch  her  moving  lips,  and  view  the 

crowd 
Stand  entranced — then  yearns  my  heart 

with  feeling, 
As  if  by  hunger's  fiercest  pangs  'twere 

bowed. 

I  long — I  pant  for  that  same  sweet  emo 
tion, 
Which  others  feel   in  music's    glorious 

round ; 
Oh,   give   me   hearing    as   the   winds   to 

ocean — 

I   faint — I  die  in   the    wild    thirst    for 
sound ! 

But  I  must  bear !     This  life  will  soon  be 

over — 

Then  in   a   land   more  lovely  shall   I 
be, 


Where   no  dark   clouds    this  longing  ear 

shall  cover — 
Where  I  shall  hear  even  as  on  earth  I 

see; 

Then  shall  I  know  the  soft  voice  of  mother, 
Softer  than  those  bright  eyes  I  used  to 

love — 
Then    shall   I    hail    each    merry-hearted 

brother ; 
Oh  take  me,  Father,  to  that  world  above ! 


THE  POET. 

THE  new  moon  treads  the  azure  sky, 
The  stars  in  glory  walk  on  high, 
The  dews  of  night  fall  fast  and  chill, 
And  sighs  the  wind  around  the  hill, 
Moaning  in  fitful  gusts  and  wild, 
Like  a  fond  mother  o'er  her  child ; 
The  lake  is  calm,  in  distance  lying, 
And  Echo's  voice  seems  scarce  replying 
To  the  sad  wind,  or  mournful  bird, 
Which  from  that  ancient  oak  is  heard ; 
Oh  who,  'mid  this,  on  yonder  height, 
Alone  with  Nature  and  the  night  ? 

Who  stands  upon  that  peak  so  high 
In  bold  relief  against  the  sky  ? 
As  if  to  solemn  thought  addressed 
His  folded  arms  lie  on  his  breast ; 
From  his  broad  brow  the  sunny  hair 
Is  flung  back  careless  on  the  air  ; 
His  cheek  is  pale,  but  falls  his  glance 
Keen  as  the  gleam  of  warrior's  lance ; 
And  on  his  curving  lip  of  pride 
Sublimest  joy  sits  deified  ! 
Tell  me,  what  doth  he,  pausing  there, 
Looking  far  up  the  deep  blue  air  ? 

It  is — it  is  the  Poet  youth — 
The  prophet-bard  of  Nature's  truth, 
The  high  of  soul,  upon  whose  brow 
God's  seal  doth  like  a  star-flame  glow 


1850-60.] 


BENJAMIN    T.    GUSHING. 


495 


Radiant  and  beautiful !  whose  task 
The  pure  Immortals  well  might  ask ; 
Within  whose  heart's  cell  ever  burn 
High  thoughts,  like  stars  in  Night's  blue  urn ; 
And  whose  clear  voice,  so  deep  and  kind, 
Charms,  blesses,  glorifies  mankind! 

Upon  him  from  his  earliest  day 
A  golden  charm  from  Nature  lay, 
Which  bade  the  world,  to  others  dim, 
Reveal  a  beauteous  realm  to  him, 
And  seem  as  fair  as  when  she  burst 
From  her  Creator's  hand  at  first ; 
And  let  him  go  where'er  he  will 
That  charm  of  life  is  round  him  still. 

To  him  the  simplest  flower  that  blooms — 
The  rose-bud,  laden  with  perfumes, 
The  lily,  pale  as  cloistered  nun, 
The  cowslip,  colored  by  the  sun, 
The  meek-eyed  violet's  grassy  bed, 
The  dainty  daisy  tipped  with  red — 
E'en  lichens  from  the  rude  rocks  bowing, 
And  butter-cups  in  meadows  growing, 
And  moss  that  waves  by  waters  clear, 
Give  inspiration  fresh  and  dear. 

He  loveth,  too,  Earth's  living  things  : — 
The  humming-bird  on  radiant  wings, 
Like  a  plumed  jewel,  fallen  down 
All  glittering,  from  a  rainbow's  crown; 
The  lark  that  sings,  the  soaring  eagle, 
The  bounding  doe,  the  baying  beagle, 
The  lambkin  sporting  wild  with  play 
On  a  green  bank,  of  summer  day ; 
All  these, — and  vales,  and  dashing  floods 
And  thickets  deep,  and  wild  old  woods 
Where  springs  are  born,  which  the  bright 

sun 

Strives  through  thick  leaves  to  look  upon, 
And  mountains  brown,  and  heaving  sea, 
Grand  in  its  deep-toned  minstrelsy ; 
These  charm  him,  whether  lit  at  morn 
By  the  sun's  early  torch,  or  warm 
With  the  thick  fire  which  noontide  showers, 
Like  small,  bright  rain  on  thirsty  flowers, 


Or  whether  fair  and  soft  they  lie 
Steeped  in  calm  evening's  rosy  dye! 

But  better  far  than  these  he  loves, 
The  glorious  night,  when  fields  and  groves, 
In  their  thrice  sacred  beauty  spread, 
Solemn  as  mourners  o'er  the  dead ; 
When  all  gay  Nature's  myriad  forms 
(So  fancy-hued  in  Day's  wride  arms) 
Now,  in  one  somber  garb  arrayed, 
Bow  down  and  worship  in  the  shade 
Of  the  great  temple  God  hath  made ! 
Whose  floor  is  earth's  circumference  wide, 
Whose  organ  is  the  ocean's  tide, 
Whose  pillars  are  the  mountains  high, 
Whose  lamps  the  stars,  whose  roof  the 

sky; 

That  temple  where  both  great  and  small 
Proclaim  God  in,  above,  through  all ! 

Yes,  when  the  Night  spreads  out  her  tent 

Writh  golden  orbs  of  light  besprent, 

The  Poet  seeks  yon  lofty  mound, 

And  scans  the  dreamy  landscape  round — 

The  darkened  woods,  the  distant  river, 

And  the  stars  shining  on  forever — 

Nature's  dear  child,  most  glad  with  her, 

To  be  a  silent  worshiper ! 

And  as  he  gazes,  o'er  his  soul 

Those  tides  of  song  in  music  roll, 

Which   yet   shall   break   on    time's   dark 

shore, 
And  ring  melodious,  evermore  ! 

Oh,  solemn  Night !  thine  is  the  hour 
When  Poesy  hath  deepest  power, 
When  inspiration,  like  a  flood 
Of  mellow  glory,  bids  the  blood 
Dance  swifter  through  the  veins,  and  fires 
The  heart  with  fond  and  proud  desires ; 
Thine  is  the  hour  when  most  we  love 
To  radiate  toward  the  Soul  above — 
When  tender  thoughts  abroad  are  stealing, 
And  tender  wishes  past  revealing  ; 
Thine  is  the  hour  for  dreams  most  bright — 
Then  let  the  Poet  love  the  Night ! 


496 


BENJAMIN    T.    GUSHING. 


[1850-CO. 


I  DO  NOT  LOVE  THEE. 

I  DO  not  love  thee — by  my  word  I  do  not ! 

I  do  not  love  thee — for  thy  love  I  sue  not, 

And  yet  I  fear  there's  hardly  one  that 
weareth 

Thy  beauty's  chains,  who  like  me  for  thee 
care  th ; 

Who  joys  like  me  when  in  thy  joy  believ 
ing* 

Who  like  me  grieves  when  thou  dost  seem 
but  grieving. 

But  though  I  charms  so  perilous  eschew 
not, 

I  do  not  love  thee — no,  indeed  I  do  not ! 

I  do  not  love  thee — prithee,  why  so  coy, 
then, 

Doth  it  thy  maiden  bashfulness  annoy, 
then? 

Sith  the  heart's  homage  still  will  be  up- 
welling, 

Where  Truth  and  Goodness  have  so  sweet 
a  dwelling, 

Surely,  unjust  one,  I  were  less  than  mortal, 

Knelt  I  not  thus  before  that  temple's  por 
tal. 

Others  dare  love  thee — dare  what  I  do 
not, 

Then  let  me  worship,  bright  one,  while  I 
woo  not. 


THE  PAST. 

WHEN  twilight  shades  are  stealing 

Across  the  sky, 
And  zephyrs,  gently  wailing, 

Are  wandering  by, 
Thon  sit  I  sadly  dreaming, 

With  brow  o'ercast, 
While  to  my  soul  comes  beaming 

The  holy  Past. 


The  Past !  how  fair  it  rises 

Before  the  sight — 
Clad  with  unchanging  graces, 

Arrayed  in  light ! 
Moved  by  its  visions  glowing, 

The  free  heart  bounds — 
Soft  as  a  stream's  sweet  flowing, 

Its  music  sounds ! 

Ah  !  then  how  many  knew  us 

Who  know  no  more — 
How  many  who  now  view  us 

From  heaven's  dim  shore ! 
The  fond,  the  dear,  the  cherished, 

Removed  from  day, 
Their  forms  of  beauty  perished 

In  cold  decay. 

Our  love  could  not  enchain  them 

With  bondage  sweet — 
Our  hopes  could  not  detain  them, 

As  rainbows  fleet ; 
They  gave  for  earth,  in  leaving, 

One  yearning  sigh — 
One  wish  for  those  left  grieving — 

Then  sought  the  sky. 

The  Past !  what  joys  enshrined  it ! 

How  fresh  and  fair 
Were  the  flower- wreaths  that  entwined 
it — 

Those  moments  rare ; 
Their  odor  yet  embalms  it 

In  beauty  lone, 
And  when  the  present  names  it, 

I  sadly  moan. 

The  Past !  its  scenes  are  banished — 

Its  glories  o'er ; 
Each  blissful  dream  hath  vanished, 

To  come  no  more ; 
Yet  like  the  mournful  blossoms 

That  deck  a  tomb, 
Their  memories  in  our  bosoms 

Will  ever  bloom  ! 


CELIA   M.  BURR. 


CELIA  M.  BURR  was  born  in  the  town  of  Cazenovia,  New  York,  about  the  year 
1825.  She  was  the  adopted  child  of  Henry  and  Sarah  Tibbitts,  of  whom  she  speaks 
with  loving  kindness  as  persons  of  unblemished  integrity  of  character.  Her  educa 
tion  was  mainly  acquired  at  the  district  school-house,  a  mile  distant  from  her  home. 
More  liberal  opportunities  were  offered  her  for  a  short  period,  at  a  popular  Seminary, 
when  she  became  a  school-teacher,  and  was  successfully  employed  in  that  capacity 
until  her  marriage,  in  January,  1844,  to  C.  B.  Kellum,  then  a  citizen  of  Albany,  New 
York.  Soon  after  marriage  Mr.  Kellum  removed  from  Albany  to  Cincinnati.  There 
Mrs.  Kellum  began  her  literary  career.  Adopting  the  signature  CELIA,  she  wrote 
prose  and  verse  which  were  acceptable  to  leading  papers.  In  1849  she  became  the 
literary  editor  of  the  Great  West,  a  weekly  journal  of  large  size  and  of  popular  char 
acter,  which  E.  Penrose  Jones  had  established  in  1848.  Mr.  Jones  was  the  leading 
member  of  the  firm  of  Robinson  &  Jones,  booksellers  and  publishers,  who  were 
agents  for  literary  journals  printed  in  Boston  and  New  York,  with  editions  for  the 
western  market  dated  at  Cincinnati,  Louisville,  or  St.  Louis.  The  success  of  Robin 
son  &  Jones  as  agents  induced  them  to  become  legitimate  proprietors. 

Judiciously  conducted  and  liberally  advertised,  the  Great  West  attained  a  large  cir 
culation  in  all  the  Western  States.  All  the  prominent  writers  of  the  Ohio  Valley 
were  paid  contributors,  and  Mr.  Jones  was  able  to  show  that  the  West  could  have  as 
good  a  literary  journal  of  its  own,  as  those  New  York  and  Philadelphia  publishers 
sought  to  provide  for  it.  In  March,  1850,  the  Great  West  was  united  with  the  Weekly 
Columbian,  a  paper  of  like  character,  which  had  been  in  existence  a  few  months. 
The  product  of  this  union,  The  Columbian  and  Great  West,  published  by  E.  Penrose 
Jones  and  edited  by  William  B.  Shattuck,  was  eminently  successful  until  September, 
1853,  when  it  was  suspended  on  account  of  embarrassments  growing  out  of  a  Daily 
Columbian.  Sprightly  letters  written  for  the  Great  West  by  Mrs.  Kellum  as  "Mrs. 
John  Smith,"  were  much  admired  and  widely  circulated  by  other  literary  papers. 
When  the  Great  West  and  Weekly  Columbian  were  united,  Mrs.  Kellum  was  engaged 
as  a  regular  contributor;  and  she  afterward  wrote  for  the  New  York  Tribune,  for  Gra 
ham's  Magazine,  and  other  literary  periodicals  published  in  eastern  cities. 

Having  obtained  a  divorce  from  her  husband,  Mrs.  Kellum  married,  in  1851,  C. 
Chauncey  Burr,  who  is  well  known  as  a  lecturer  and  writer.  This  marriage  proving 
uncongenial,  Mrs.  Burr  separated  from  her  husband  and  returned  to  the  profession  for 
which  she  had  fitted  herself  in  early  life.  She  is  now  a  teacher  in  the  University  of 
the  Swedenborgian  Church,  at  Urbana,  Ohio. 


(497) 

32 


498 


CELIA    M.    BURR. 


[1850-60. 


THE  REAPERS. 

AROUSE  thee,  faint-hearted  !  what  fearest 

That  thou  goest  not  forth  with  the  day, 
But  sitting  all  listlessly,  hearest 

Unheeding  the  harvesters'  lay  ? 
The  sun  is  far  up  o'er  the  hill-top, 

The  reapers  are  out  on  the  plain, 
And   the   strong   and    brave-hearted   are 
filling 

Their  garners  with  ripe,  yellow  grain. 

The  dew  has  gone  up  from  the  clover, 

The  morning  is  waning  apace, 
The  days  of  the  summer  are  over, 

And  winter  will  autumn  displace : 
Then  why  art  not  out  in  the  valleys, 

And  working  with  hearty  good  will, 
To  gather  thy  share  of  the  harvest, 

Thy  garner  with  plenty  to  fill  ? 

"  I  sit  in  my  place  all  the  morning, 

Because  when  I  went  to  the  plain, 
In  the  first  early  gray  of  the  dawning, 

And  looked  on  the  far-waving  grain, 
I  saw,  in  its  midst,  sturdy  reapers, 

With  arms  that  were  steady  and  true, 
Whose  sickles  went  flashing  before  them, 

Like  sunbeams  enameled  with  dew. 

"  And  strong  as  the  warriors  of  olden, 

They  stood  in  the  midst  of  their  sheaves, 
While  before  them  the  harvest  all  golden 

Swept  down  like  the  wind-shaken  leaves, 
And  I  knew  'twas  a  useless  endeavor 

For  me  to  go  forth  to  the  plain — 
The  weak  have  no  place  at  the  harvest, 

No  share  in  the  treasures  of  grain. 

"They  would   laugh   me  to  scorn — they 

would  jeer  me, 
Those  men,  in  the  might  of  their  pride; — 
I  know  all  my  weakness — and  fear  me 

To  seek  for  a  place  at  their  side. 
And  so  I  have  stayed  in  my  dwelling, 
While  the  dew  has  gone  up  from  the 
plain ; 


or  I  have  no  place  at  the  harvest — 
No  share  in  the  treasures  of  grain." 

Woe  betide   thee !  thou   weak  and  faint 
hearted, 

That  goest  not  forth  to  the  field ! 
For,  behold  when  the  day  is  departed, 

What  fruit  will  thy  fearfulnesa  yield  ? 
And  wliat  if  thy  arm  be  not  strongest ! 

Wilt  therefore  sit  idly  and  pine, 
Neglecting  to  use  what  is  given, 

And  wasting  e'en  that  which  is  thine  ? 

Go  forth  to  thy  work,  idle  dreamer ! 

There  is  room  in  the  harvest  for  all ; 
And  if  thine  be  the  work  of  the  gleaner, 

Gather  carefully  that  which  may  fall — 
So  shalt  thou  have  place  at  the  harvest, 

A  share  of  its  treasures  be  thine, 
And  e'en  if  thy  share  be  the  smallest, 

Still  let  not  thy  spirit  repine. 

For  the  labor  of  each  one  is  needed, 
The  weakest  as  well  as  the  strong, 

And  the  chorus  of  no  one  unheeded 
In  the  swell  of  the  harvesters'  song. 


LABOR. 


"  TELL  me,  maiden,"  said  the  year  in  going, 
"  What  the  message  I  shall  bear  from 

thee, 
To  the  angels  who  with  love  past-knowing 

Fed  the  life-lamp  of  thy  infancy  ? 
When  I  meet  them  they  will  murmur  low, 
'  Oh,  year !    what   tidings  from  the  loved 
below?'" 

"  Tell  them,  tell  them  that  beside  the  sea 
I  wait  a  passage  to  the  land  of  morn ; 

That  Hope  has  whispered,  o'er  the  waves 

to  me, 
A  goodly  vessel  by  the  winds  is  borne, 


1850-60.] 


CELIA    M.    BURR. 


499 


To  waft  me  proudly  to  that  sunny  land 
Where    all   the   castles   of  my   dreaming 
stand. 

"  Day  after  day  I  watch  the  ships  go  by ; 
And  strain  my  eyes  across  the  purpling 

deep, 
"Where  dimly  pictured  'gainst  the  summer 

sky 
The  hills   of  morning  in  their  beauty 

sleep. 
But  look !  even  now  across  the   shining 

sea, 
The  ship  of  promise  bearing  down  for  me.' 


II. 

"  Silent   mourner,    on    the    wreck -strewn 

shore. 

When  the  angels  of  thy  infancy 
Ask    if   homeward   turn    thy   steps   once 

more, 
What,  I  pray  thee,  shall   my   answer 

be? 
'Tell   us!    tell   us,'    they   will    say,   'Oh 

year! 
Draws  the  loved  one  unto  us  more  near?'" 

"  Leave  me  !  leave  me !  all  is  lost,  is  lost ! 
My    goodly    ship    is    crumbled    in    the 

deep, 
My   trusted    helmsman   in    the    breakers 

tossed ; 
All's  wrecked !  all's   wasted,  even  the 

power  to  weep. 

The  mocking  waves  toss  scornfully  ashore 
The    ruined  treasures  that  are   mine   no 

more. 

"  Leave  me  alone  to  pore  upon  the  waves, 
Whitened  with   upturned    faces   of  the 

dead; 
Earth  for  such  corpses  has,  alas !  no  graves ; 

No  holy  priest  has  requiescat !  said. 
There's   nothing   left   me   but   the   bitter 

sea, 
God  and  his  angels  have  forgotten  me." 


in. 

"Earnest  worker, in  the  fire-light  dreaming, 
What    the   message  I  shall   bear  from 

thee 

To  the  angels  whose  soft  eyes  are  beaming 
From  the  portal  where  they  watch  for 

me  ? 

'  Is  she  coming  ?  '  they  will  say,  '  Oh  year ! 
Draw    her    footsteps    to   the    home-land 
near  ? '  * 

"  This  the  message — that  I  sit  no  more 
With  eyes   bent   idly  on  the   hills  of 

morn, 
That  in  the  tempest  on  the  wreck-strewn 

shore, 

A  holier  purpose  to  my  soul  was  born. 
'  Give  leave  to  labor ' — was  the  prayer  I 

said, 
Leaving  the  dead  past  to  inter  its  dead. 

"  And  it  was  granted — by  my  hearth  to 
night, — 

Tell  the  beloved  ones, — I  sit  alone 
But  not  unhappy ;  for  the  morning  light 
Will  show  my  pathway  with  its  uses 

strown. 

Happy  in  labor — say  to  them,  Oh,  year ! 
I  wait  the  Sabbath  which  I  trust  draws 
near." 


THE  SNOW. 

PEACEFULLY,  dreamily,  slowly, 

It  comes  through  the  halls  of  the  air, 
And  falls  to  the  earth  like  a  spirit 

That  kneels  in  its  beauty  at  prayer. 
Mid  the  sere  leaves  she  layeth  her  fore 
head, 

While  the  forests  are  murmuring  low, 
And  telling  the  beads   she   has    brought 
them — 

The  beautiful  spirit,  the  Snow. 


OBED  J.  WILSON. 


AMONG  the  occasional  contributors  to  the  poetical  literature  of  the  West,  many  of 
whose  poems  will  survive  partial  friends  and  special  interests,  Obed  J.  Wilson  proper 
ly  holds  rank.  He  was  born  in  Bingham,  Maine,  in  1826.  Ten  years  ago  he  occa 
sionally  wrote  for  the  National  Era  and  the  Ladies'  Repository,  arid  was  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  Cincinnati  Commercial  and  other  papers.  In  a  note,  from  which, 
in  justice  to  Mr.  Wilson,  we  quote,  he  says : 

"  My  poems  were  written  when  the  pastime  of  versifying  involved  no  censurable  neglect  of  the 
serious  duties  of  life.  At  a  time  when  my  engagements  left  me  more  leisure  than  now,  I  found 
much  pleasure  in  '  tagging  rhymes.'  For  the  past  eight  or  ten  years  I  have  written  but  little." 

Mr.  Wilson  is  a  citizen  of  Cincinnati,  and  is  the  literary  referee  of  the  Publishing 
House  of  W.  B.  Smith  and  Company. 


THE  STARS. 

HERALDS  of  power,  in  beauty  sent, 

All  flaming  from  the  hand  of  God, 
To  sweep  along  the  firmament, 

And  bear  his  glorious  seal  abroad, 
Ye  roll  as  grandly,  proudly  bright, 

As  erst  ye  rolled  in  youthful  prime, 
And  fling  your  rays  of  rosy  light 

Along  the  starry  steeps  of  time. 

I  stand  entranced,  and  gaze  afar 

Across  the  blue  long  reach  of  heaven, 
And  watch  each  richly-blazing  star 

Come  pressing  through  the  shades  of 

even  ; 
Till  far  around  the  cope  of  night, 

All  downward  to  its  dusky  hem, 
Is  beaming,  beautifully  bright, 

With  many  a  radiant  stellar  gem. 

Ye  central  suns,  that  power  divine 

Sent   wheeling   through   the   deeps   of 
space, 

I  come  to  worship  at  your  shrine, 
And  in  his  works  their  author  trace  ; 


Through  nature,  in  its  varied  forms, 
Behold  the  high  omnific  hand, 

That  braids  the   lightnings,   weaves    the 

storms, 
And  wraps  old  ocean  round  the  land. 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  fashioned  space, 

And  walled  it  with  the  violet  sky ; 
That  badp  the  stars  go  forth  and  trace 

Their  pathways  through  immensity  ? 
Who  rolled  the  waves  of  darkness  back, 

And  loosed  your  streams  of  silvery  rays, 
To  flow  along  the  golden  track, 

That  each  pursues  through  endless  maze? 

The  stars  in  concert  sweetly  join 

The  glorious  answer  to  rehearse  ; 
Proclaiming,  'twas  a  hand  divine 

That  framed  the  mighty  universe  ; 
That  decked  it  with  all  gorgeous  dyes, 

And  gemmed  it  with  effulgent  spheres, 
And  robed  it  with  the  sapphire  skies, — 

The  grand  chronometer  of  years. 


Roll  on,  ye  stars,  sublimely  roll 
In  beauty  and  in  grandeur  on. 


(500) 


1850-60.] 


OBED    J.WILSON. 


501 


Still  bearing  to  your  distant  goal 

The  freshness  of  your  primal  dawn ; 

And  shining  out  as  purely  bright 
As  in  the  ages  past  ye  shone ; 

When    Chaldee's    shepherds    watched   by 

night, 
Your  march  along  yon  blazing  zone. 

Ye  pilgrims  round  the  eternal  throne, 

With  censers  filled  with  living  light, 
My  thoughts  go  wandering  forth  alone 

To  track  with  you  the  wastes  of  night ; 
Above  the  clouds  and  tempests'  rage, 

Across  yon  blue  and  radiant  arch, 
Upon  your  long,  high  pilgrimage, 

I    watch  your  glittering  armies  march. 

Along  the  blue,  ethereal  plain, 

Your  living  splendors  meet  and  blend, 
Forming  a  constellated  chain, 

Without  beginning,  break,  or  end ; 
And  on  this  telegraph  of  light, 

Worlds  beyond  worlds,  far  out  in  space, 
Send  down  across  the  Infinite, 

Their  tidings  from  God's  dwelling-place. 

What  myriad  rills  of  pearly  beams 

Come  rippling  down  the  slopes  of  even, 
The  sources  of  whose  living  streams 

Are  in  those  far-off  founts  of  heaven : 
But  whose  the  hand  that  e'er  supplies, 

Age  after  age  their  drainless  springs, 
And  bids  them  gush  along  the  skies, 

When  night  abroad  her  mantle  flings  ? 

Make  answer,  ocean,  with  thy  full, 

And  deep,  and  solemn  undertone ; 
Make  answer,  earth,  all  beautiful 

With  life,  and  love,  and  blossoms  strown ; 
Make  answer,  heart  and  soul  within, 

Make  answer,  thoughts  that  rove  abroad ; 
And  ye,  bright  minstrelsy,  begin, 

And  in  your  chorus  answer,  God  ! 


LINES. 

I  FEAR  not  scandal,  though  its  tongue 

My  reputation  blast, 
And  o'er  a  name  I've  stainless  kept 

Its  withering  venom  cast; 
For  virtues  that  might  pass  unknown 

In  fortune's  sunny  day, 
When  slandered  by  the  lips  of  guile, 

Shed  forth  their  gentlest  ray. 

I  fear  not  hatred,  though  it  arm 

Itself  in  secret  guile  ; 
For  kindness  changeth  it  to  love, 

And  charms  it  with  her  smile : 
Till  where  dark  passions  lurked  before, 

Plotting  their  deeds  of  wrong, 
Meek  virtue  makes  her  dwelling-place, 

And  loving  grows,  and  strong. 

I  fear  not  poverty  and  want, — 

Misfortune's  haggard  train, — 
Contentment  mailed  in  cheerfulness 

Disarmeth  them  of  pain : 
She  strews  the  sloping  walks  of  life 

With  roses  rich  and  rare, 
And  they  who  tread  her  pleasant  paths 

Will  find  no  serpents  there. 

I  fear  not  sorrow,  robed  in  weeds, — 

Affliction's  tearful  child, — 
It  wins  me  from  a  world  of  sin 

That  else  had  love  beguiled ; 
And  points  me  to  a  Better  Land 

Far  o'er  Time's  stormy  main, 
Where   long-lost  friends,  death  sundered 
here, 

Shall  meet  and  love  again. 

I  fear  not  sickness  and  disease, 

Though  pains  companion  them; 
They  can  but  mar  the  casket, 

They  may  not  soil  its  gem : 
They  teach  me  that  the  ills  of  life 

Are  blessings  in  disguise, — 
The  mingled  good  and  ill  we  heir 

From  distant  Paradise. 


OBED    J.    WILSON. 


[1850-60. 


I  fear  not  all  thy  terrors,  Death, 

I  dread  not  even  thee ; 
Thou  canst  but  take  its  citadel 

And  set  the  spirit  free ; 
Free  to  commence  its  endless  round 

Of  usefulness  and  bliss, 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  never  come, 

In  fairer  worlds  than  this. 

But  I  do  fear  the  slavery 

Of  passions  deep  and  dark, 
That  drive  us  on  o'er  gulfs  of  vice, 

As  winds  the  helmless  bark : 
Till  on  some  lone  and  stormy  sea 

The  worthless  wreck  goes  down, 
With  tempests  raging  round  it, 

And  beneath  a  clouded  sun. 


LIFE— A  JOURNEY. 

"ALL  aboard ! "  Conductor  shouted ; 

To  the  engineer  he  spake ; 
Then  were  loosed  the  fettered  flanges 

From  the  shackles  of  the  break : 
Loud  and  shrill  the  whistle  sounded ; 

Slowly  out  the  long  train  moves ; 
Stoutly  play  the  shining  pistons, 

Up  and  down  the  oily  grooves. 

Faster,  faster,  breathes  the  charger, 

Which  nor  time  nor  load  can  tire, 
With  his  iron  limbs  and  muscles, 

And  his  breath  of  steam  and  fire ; 
Him  with  brazen  bands  they've  harnessed, 

And  have  fettered  to  the  car, 
And  bravely  and  right  gallantly 

He  bears  us  now  afar. 

How  his  mane  of  sable  blackness, 
With  the  fire-sparks  intertwined, 

As  he  rushes  grandly  onward, 
Back  is  thrown  along  the  wind ! 

Fn-tcr,  faster,  and  yet  faster, 
Plunges  on  our  iron  steed, 


Tramping,  with  his  tread  of  thunder, 
Over  upland,  plain,  and  mead; 

Winding  round  the  base  of  mountains, 

Penetrating  ancient  woods, 
Vaulting  valleys,  wild  and  gloomy, 

Threading  prairie  solitudes : 
Racing  thus  for  miles  unnumbered, 

We  outstripped  the  lagging  gale ; 
On,  and  on,  and  on,  for  hours, 

Rattling  o'er  the  ringing  rail. 

Thundering  down  across  the  country, 

Came  another  train  as  fleet, 
Dashing  on  to  make  connection, 

Where  converging  courses  meet : 
Soon  we  reached  the  intersection, 

Whistles  sounded,  stopped  each  train, 
Friends  exchanged  brief  salutations, — 

"All  aboard  ! " — away  again  ! 

Again  away  our  trains  went  speeding, 

Freighted  with  their  wealth  of  life ; 
Onward  to  their  destination, 

Bearing  love,  and  hope,  and  strife ; 
Hearts  with  grief  and  anguish  laden, 

Bosoms  filled  with  dumb  despair, 
Loud-voiced  mirth  and  bright-eyed  laugh 
ter. 

Sober  thought  and  anxious  care. 

Such  is  life,  a  rapid  journey, 

Thus  to  death  we  hurry  on, 
Thus  we  meet  and  thus  are  sundered, 

Come  in  haste,  in  haste  are  gone ; 
Thus  our  paths  are  intersecting, 

Thus  we  part  to  meet  no  more, 
Speeding  down  diverging  pathways 

To  death's  dim  and  solemn  shore. 

None  can  loiter,  none  can  tarry ; 

Infancy,  and  youth,  and  age, 
Ever  restless,  all  are  speeding 

On  this  unknown  pilgrimage. 
O,  may  Virtue,  sweet  and  holy, 

O,  may  Faith,  the  gentle  one, 
Fit  us  for  the  Better  Country, 

AVhen  our  journeyings  here  are  done ! 


EDWARD  D.  HOWARD. 


AMONG  the  young  men  who  attracted  attention  as  contributors  to  the  National  Era, 
soon  after  its  establishment  at  Washington  City,  was  Edward  D.  Howard,  then  a  res 
ident  of  Orwell,  Ashtabula  county,  Ohio,  now  a  citizen  of  Cleveland.  Mr.  Howard 
is  a  native  of  Tolland,  Connecticut,  where  he  was  born,  September  twenty-seventh, 
1825.  His  parents  settled  in  Ohio  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  he  was  educated  in  the 
common  schools  of  Ashtabula  county  and  at  Kirtland  Academy.  He  was  for  several 
years  a  school-teacher  in  Northern  Ohio,  and  has  been  editor  of  the  Western  Reserve 
Chronicle,  at  Warren,  of  the  Free  Democrat,  at  Youngstown,  and  of  the  Cleveland 
Leader.  He  has  been  a  poetical  contributor  to  several  magazines  of  established  rep 
utation,  as  well  as  to  the  New  York  Tribune. 


MIDSUMMER. 

I  LIE  beneath  the  quiet  trees 

That  murmur  softly,  like  a  song, 
Breathed  gently  through  unconscious  lips  ; 

Happy  as  summer  days  are  long 
I  lie  and  gaze,  while  pulse  and  thought 

Flow  on  with  deep  and  lingering  tide, 
The  one  into  my  dreaming  heart, 

The  other  outward,  vague  and  wide. 

The  drowsy  hours  full-freighted  drift 

Along  life's  ocean,  as  of  old, 
Deep-laden  argosies  went  down 

To  eastern  cities,  fraught  with  gold ; 
And  tropic  fruits,  and  spicy  drugs, 

Whose  very  names  a  fragrance  bear, 
As  vases  which  have  held  rich  flowers, 

Betray  the  sweetness  once  was  there. 

Not  of  the  Future  dream  I  now ; 

The  Spring  will  with  those  dreams  return ; 
And  hope  and  energy  will  wake, 

When  Winter's  fires  again  shall  burn : 
Nor  of  the  Past — let  mem'ry  sleep, 

Till  Autumn's  pensive  touch,  once  more, 


Shall  tune  my  heart  to  sad  delight, 
And  paint  lost  visions  fondly  o'er. 

Hope — memory — regret — despair — 

Gone  are  your  hours  of  light  and  gloom ; 
Midsummer  days  are  not  for  you, 

For  the  rich  Present  now  make  room ! 
The  womanhood  of  nature  breathes 

Its  warm  fruition  every  where ; 
And  the  deep  triumph  of  her  heart 

Fills,  like  a  passion,  all  the  air. 


I  breathe  its  inspiration  in  ; 

She  bears  it  brimming  to  my  lips ; 
Not  half  so  full  of  rosy  joy 

The  wine  the  flushed  bacchante  sips. 
So  Hebe  bore  the  fabled  cup, 

To  bless  the  heathen  gods  of  yore; 
So  deep  they  drank  the  fragrant  bliss 

From  the  full  chalice  running  o'er. 

Oh,  weary  heart,  with  passion  sick, 
Has  thy  deep  love  unanswered,  lost, 

Brought  no  repayal  to  the  breast 
Which  gave  it  at  such  fearful  cost? 


(503) 


504 


EDWARD    D .    HOWARD. 


[1850-60. 


Has  life  grown  weary  in  its  noon, 

Uncrowned,  inglorious,  incomplete  ? — 

Has  the  flower  faltered  in  its  bloom 
Witholding  its  precious  sweet? — 

Around  its  fragrant  center  still 

Folding,  in  darkness  and  decay, 
Those  inmost  petals,  which  in  love 

Blossom  life's  fragrant  joy  away  ? 
Oh,  come  with  me  beneath  the  trees ; — 

Forget  thyself  in  nature's  joy! 
Here  dwells  no  baffled,  longing  pain — 

No  disappointment  to  annoy ! 

Here  triumph  in  her  full  success ; 

Here  revel  in  her  boundless  bloom ; 
Blend  her  sweet  consciousness  with  thine, 

And  take  her  sunlight  for  thy  gloom. 
Thus  shall  thy  inmost  spirit  feel 

The  thrill  of  deep,  victorious  song, 
And  life  be  crowned  with  happiness 

When  fair  midsummer  days  are  long. 


FRATERNITY. 

COME  together,  men  and  brothers, 

Come  together  for  the  right ; 
Come  together  in  the  dawning, — 

Come  together  in  the  light ; 
As  the  rays  of  sunny  gladness 

Mingle  o'er  the  mountains  gray, 
Mingle  we  in  bonds  fraternal, 

Blending  joyfully  as  they ! 

Come  together — do  not  linger 

By  the  fires  of  hatred  old ; 
Love  is  better  and  more  worthy, 

Beautiful  an  hundred  fold. 
Grope  no  more  amid  the  ashes — 

Bury  deep  the  embers  there  ; 
For  a  purer  light  now  flashes 

Through  the  vivifying  air. 


Come  together — be  united  ! 

Common  friends  for  common  good  : 
What  is  best  for  you,  my  brother, 

Can  on  no  one's  rights  intrude. 
"  What  is  sorrowful  and  evil 

For  the  humblest  of  mankind, 
This  is  sorrow,  to  all  others  ! " 

Saith  the  pure,  enlightened  mind. 

Come  together ! — Earth  and  Heaven 

Wait  expectant  of  the  time ; 
Freedom  brightly  o'er  us 

With  a  smile  of  hope  sublime. 
Angels  linger  at  the  portals 

Of  the  bright  and  happy  world, 
Gazing  down  with  joyful  glances 

Where  free  banners  are  unfurled ! 


I  DREAM  OF  THEE. 

I  DREAM  of  thee,  and  sleep  becomes 
The  spring-time  of  untold  delight; 

While  Heaven,  which  lingers  far  away 
By  day,  comes  near  me  in  the  night. 

I  dream  of  thee,  and  life  becomes 

A  blessing  fraught  with  nameless  bliss ; 

Till  angels  in  their  starry  homes 
Might  envy  me  the  joys  of  this. 

The  daylight  fades, — soft  shadows  fall — 
Care  spares  me  till  to-morrow  morn ; 

While  sleep  o'ertints  with  love  and  light 
Night's  visions,  brighter  than  the  dawn. 

I  love  the  night  for  starry  hours, 

For  quiet  thought,  and  peaceful  rest ; 

But  when  it  brings  a  dream  of  thee, 
Oh,  then  the  night  indeed  is  bless'd ! 

'Tis  said  this  life  is  but  a  dream, 

I  would  that  such  my  life  might  be : — 

A  lingering  dream  of  countless  years, 
If  'twere  a  dream  of  love  arid  thee ! 


D.  OARLYLE   MACCLOY. 


IN  the  month  of  October,  of  the  year  1853,  Howard  Durham,  who  had  been  pub 
lishing  a  semi-monthly  literary  and  musical  paper  which  he  called  The  Gem,  issued 
the  first  number  of  a  monthly  magazine  of  original  western  literature,  for  which  the 
title  of  The  Genius  of  the  West  was  adopted.  It  contained  thirty-two  octavo  pages, 
which  were  filled  with  contributions  from  the  pens  of  Coates  Kinney,  Alice  Gary,  M. 
Louisa  Chitwood,  and  others  among  the  younger  writers  of  the  West.  It  was  received 
with  encouragement,  and  the  young  publisher  drew  around  him  a  corps  of  writers,  till 
then  enjoying  merely  local  reputations,  whose  poems,  sketches  and  tales,  republished 
from  The  Genius  in  leading  papers  of  western  cities,  were  read  with  pleasure  in  all  parts 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley.  Among  the  most  successful  of  those  writers  was  the  sub 
ject  of  this  notice.  Both  the  poems  hereafter  quoted,  were  contributed  to  The  Genius, 
"  The  Moquis"  in  January,  1854,  and  "The  Fragment "  in  February,  1855.  Through 
all  the  changes  of  publishers  and  editors  affecting  the  fortunes  of  The  Genius,  Mr. 
Maccloy  was  its  steadfast  friend.  In  June,  1854,  Mr.  Durham  associated  Charles  S. 
Abbott  and  Coates  Kinney  with  its  management,  and  in  the  succeeding  month  with 
drew  from  it  and  started  a  magazine  of  similar  character,  called  the  New  Western,  of 
which  only  three  numbers  were  issued.  In  August,  1854,  William  T.  Coggeshall  be 
came  a  joint  partner  with  Abbott  and  Kinney,  and  in  September  the  sole  proprietor, 
Mr.  Kinney  remaining  as  co-editor  until.  July,  1855.  In  December,  1855,  Mr. 
Coggeshall  sold  the  magazine  to  George  True,  then  of  Mt.  Vernon,  Ohio,  who  was  its 
publisher  until  July,  1856,  when  he  discontinued  it.  It  had,  in  all  its  history,  the  con 
fidence  and  support  of  the  literary  men  of  the  West,  and  generous  encouragement 
from  conductors  of  city  and  county  papers,  but  it  never  more  than  paid  the  expenses 
of  printing — typifying  hope  and  faith  on  the  part  of  publishers,  editors  and  authors,  as 
in  times  past  for  many  magazines  in  Ohio,  rather  than  healthful  exercise  on  the  part 
of  the  public  of  just  local  pride  in  home  literature. 

Mr.  Maccloy  wrote  poems,  critiques  and  sketches  for  The  Genius  quite  equal 
to  contributions  of  similar  character,  common  to  magazines  imported  from  sea-board 
cities,  which  are  popular  "out  West."  He  was  born,  we  believe,  in  the  Mus- 
kingum  Valley  (near  Zanesville),  about  the  year  1825.  He  received  a  liberal  educa 
tion,  having,  we  think,  graduated  at  Gambier  College, — and  then  devoted  himself  to 
teaching  school.  He  was,  in  1856,  Principal  of  the  High  School  at  Chillicothe,  Ohio. 

In  1855  Mr.  Maccloy  read  a  sprightly  satirical  poem  before  several  Lyceums  in 
Ohio,  and  appeared  then  ambitious  for  literary  distinction,  but,  since  1856,  has  rarely 
given  his  name  to  the  world. 


(  505  ) 


506 


D.   CARLYLE    MACCLOY. 


[1850-60. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

HERE  in  my  palm,  now,  is  a  simile : 
Mark  you  this  corn  and  chaff,  unwinnowed 

yet; 
See  how  the  plump,  round  grains,  filled  to 

the  skin 
With  honest  meat,  from  their  own  weight 

go  down 
Till  they  are  lost  beneath  the  worthlesss 

husks, 
Which  from  their  very  lightness  rise  and 

hide 

What  better  doth  deserve  the  kiss  of  day. 
Well,  see,  I  blow  upon  it,  so — mark  now, 
How  doth  the  idle  chaff  fly  off  until 
The  passing  winds  bear  it  away  unseen, 
Where  it  shall  rot,  and  no  more  court  the 

gaze : 
But  these  pure  germs,  instinct  with  life  to 

come, 
The  fruitful  earth  receives,  and  from  their 

tombs 
Sends  forth  the  heralds  of  their  patient 

worth, 

Until  an  hundred  generous  harvest  fields, 
Waving  like  molten  gold  beneath  the  sun, 
Proclaim  the  glory  of  those  quiet  seeds ! 

Herein  behold  the  false  and  truly  great. 
Be  patient,  then,  if  those,  with  specious  acts 
Do    draw  large   audience    and    great   ap 
plause  ; 

Let  them  alone,  they  are  the  worthless  chaff 
Which  winged  Time  shall  winnow  quite 

away ; 

They  purchase  with  this  life  of  bastard  fame, 
Eternity  of  blank  oblivion! 
Nor  do  complain,  if  these,  kin  to  the  gods? 
Walk  here  with  their  divinity  concealed. 
Such  men  may  walk  in  their  own  times 

alone, 

With  souls  that  live  in  ages  yet  uncome, 
And  we  not  know  till  their  soul-age  is  in. 
They  are  the  hid  but  germinating  seeds, 
From  whose  decay  rich  harvests  shall  be 

reaped. 


They  make  no  noise,  but  quietly  work  on, 
For   greatness   is   possessed   and   humble 

too. 

They  seek  not  fame  as  a  great  end  in  life, 
But  from  their  deeds  she  comes  a  conse 
quence  ; 

And  death  is  seedtime  of   their  fair  re 
nown. 
Lo!  him  who  sleeps  by  peaceful  Avon's 

tide  ! 

Himself  the  grand  epitome  of  man, 
To  whom  all  passions  and  affections  did 
Unmask,  while  he  explored  the  mazy  soul, 
And   tracked  each  shy   suggestion  to  its 

source, 

And  found  the  key  to  every  character — 
From  him,  "  the  foremost  man  of  all  the 

world," 

Down  to  the  meanest  and  most  slighted  job 
Of  "Nature's  journeymen." 

The  jocund  Will ! 
How  little  in  his  time  they  dreamed  that 

Fame 
Would  write  his  deathless  name  in  gold 

atop 

Qf  all  she  hitherto  had  registered, 
And  name  his  very  times — Shaksperean ! 
The    first   installment  of  his  fame  scarce 

paid, 

He  paid  stern  nature's  debt,  and  fell  asleep, 
Bequeathing  to  the  world  a  legacy 
Of  fair  report  that  doth  outparagon 
The  glory  of  an  hundred  Waterloos ! 
Lo!  him  who  sang  of  godlike  themes, 

and  swept 
From    Heaven-gate   down    to    Tartarean 

night ! 
Obscure — for  his  slow  times  knew  not  the 

man — 

He  dwelt  apart,  as  if  the  strumpet  Fame, 
Intending  slight,  passed  by  the  other  side. 
Then  like  to  blind  Maeonides  in  fate, 
Now  walketh  he  abreast  of  him  in  fame  ! 
And  now  his  mighty  name  goes  on  before, 
Smiting  the  shadows  from  the  path  of  man! 


1850-60.] 


D.    CARLYLE    MACCLOY. 


507 


THE  MOQUIS. 

WESTWARD  toward  the  setting  sun, 
Far  beyond  the  Gila's  sources, 

Lives  a  race  of  happy  men, 

On  their  laughing  river  courses. 

In  a  basin  'tween  the  Juan 

And  the  Colorado  stream, 
"Where  fair  nature  seems  in  ruin, 

'Mid  the  desert  sands  that  gleam, 

Rise  some  gentle,  sloping  mountains, 
Studded  o'er  with  woodlets  green, 

Vocal  with  the  limpid  fountains 
Leaping  downward  in  their  sheen. 

Stretcheth  outward  from  the  bases 
Of  those  mountains  in  the  sand, 

A  sweet  valley,  and  embraces 
Many  a  rood  of  goodly  land. 

There  the  Moquis  in  the  glory 

Of  sweet  innocence  abide ; 
For  'tis  better  to  grow  hoary 

In  simplicity  than  pride. 

Rich  their  cornfields  grow,  and  yellow, 
Plain  their  tables,  though  well  laden, 

Ripe  the  luscious  fruit,  and  mellow, 
Gilds  the  basket  of  the  maiden. 

And  those  simple  natives,  artless, 
Have  nor  our  boasted  manners, 

Have  nor  our  great  and  heartless, 
Nor  our  money-clutching  planners. 

There  they  need  no  midnight  warders, 
And  no  bolt  confines  the  door, 

For  no  theft  lurks  in  their  borders, 
To  molest  unguarded  store. 

There  fresh  nature  is  not  rusted, 
There  no  consciences  to  let, 

There  the  heart  is  not  all  crusted 
Over  with  false  etiquette. 


There  young  love  knows  no  abortion, 
For  no  moneyed  reason  urges 

Slightest  hint  of  stingy  caution, 

To  suppress  the  warm  heart's  surges. 

All  their  realm  the  desert  roundeth, 
And  they  seek  no  foreign  shore ; 

All  their  lives  contentment  boundeth, 
And  they  never  sigh  for  more  ! 

Well  contented  with  sweet  labors, 

In  that  garden  paradisal, 
Never  do  they  harm  their  neighbors, 

Nor  for  wrong  make  sore  reprisal. 

War's  fell  implements  they  know  not, 
Save  the  simple  bow  and  arrow, 

And  for  conquest  lust  they  show  not, 
Though  their  lands  be  very  narrow. 

And  when  cruel  foemen  rattle 
In  full  harness  o'er  the  plain, 

They  find  naught  but  flocks  of  cattle, 
And  the  waving  fields  of  grain : 

For  the  Moquis,  upward  climbing, 
Fly  the  danger  in  its  vastness, 

And  above  the  war  song's  chiming, 
Sit  secure  in  mountain  fastness. 

And  they  deem  it  wrong  to  offer 
Deep  resistance  unto  blood  ; 

For  they  think  it  best  to  suffer, 
Trusting  Providence  for  good. 

O  we  have  our  learned  sages, 
And  the  good  of  every  clime, 

And  we  have  the  thought  of  ages, 
All  concent'ring  in  our  time  : 

0  we  boast  our  homes  so  lighted 
By  the  torch  in  progress'  hand  ! 

But  the  men  are  clearer-sighted, 
In  the  far-off  Moquis  land. 


ALFRED   BURNETT. 


ALFRED  BURNETT,  though  born  in  England  in  1825,  was  bred  a  Western  man, 
his  parents  having  emigrated  to  Cincinnati  when  he  was  a  lad.  Mr.  Burnett  is  well 
known  in  Cincinnati  as  a  Confectioner,  and  has  a  reputation  throughout  the  West  as  a 
successful  Lecturer  on  Elocution,  and  delineator  of  character.  He  has  been  editor 
and  publisher  of  several  ephemeral  periodicals,  and  has  contributed  poems  to  the 
Louisville  Journal,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  the  Daily  Nonpareil,  and  other  Cincinnati 
journals.  In  1847  he  published  a  pamphlet  entitled  "  Magnetism  Made  Easy,"  and 
in  1859  a  little  volume  of  poems  and  recitations,  original  and  selected. 


THE  SEXTON'S  SPADE. 

ALL   battered   and  worn  is  the  sexton's 
spade, 

And  soon  'twill  be  thrown  aside ; 
It  hath  lasted  well,  and  many  a  grave 

Hath  it  spaded  full  deep  and  wide ! 
And   many  a  tale   could  that  old  spade 
tell— 

Tales  of  the  church-yard  drear, 
Of  the  silent  step,  and  the  doleful  knell, 

Of  the  coffin,  shroud,  and  bier ! 

It  could  tell  of  children  who  died  in  spring, 

When  roses  were  blooming  around, 
While  the  morning  lark  its  carol  would 

sing 

As  it  flew  o'er  the  burial  ground ! 
How  it  parted  aside,  with  its  iron  blade, 

The  grass  which  so  lately  grew ; 
And  a  grave  for  the  young  was  carefully 

made, 

'Neath  the  shade  of  the  broad-spreading 
yew. 


It  could  tell  of  those  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
Whose  steps  were  so  light  and  free — 


Whose   thoughts   were   pure,  and   whose 

hearts  were  truth, 
But  who  now  sleep  silently ! 
How  their  graves  were  made  in  the  sum 
mer-time, 

When  the  flowers  around  were  bright, 
And  wreaths  were  made  of  the  eglantine, 
And  placed  o'er  their  brows  so  white. 

It  could  tell  us  of  manhood's  slow  decay ; 

And  how,  in  the  hour  of  pride, 
The  spirit  hath  left  its  house  of  clay, 

And  all  that  was  mortal  died ; 
How  the  autumn  leaves  that  strewed  the 
ground 

Were  quietly  brushed  away, 
While   sorrowing   friends   were   gathered 
around, 

When  the  clay  returned  unto  clay ! 

It  could  tell  us  of  weak  and  hoary  age, 

With  its  feeble  step  and  slow, 
Who  gladly  seized  upon  the  gage — 

The  gauntlet  Death  did  throw ; 
How  graves  were  made  when  old  winter's 
breath 

Had  blown  on  the  flowers  so  fair : 


(  508  ) 


1850-60.] 


ALFRED    BURNETT 


509 


All  seasons  and  ages  belong  unto  Death — 
Youth,  manhood,  nor  age  will  he  spare 

All  battered  and  worn  is  the  sexton's  spade 

And  soon  'twill  be  thrown  aside ; 
It  hath  lasted  well,  and  many  a  grave 

Hath  it  shaped  both  deep  and  wide ! 
And  many  a  tale  could  that  old  spade  tell — 

Tales  of  the  church-yard  drear, 
Of  the  silent  step,  and  the  doleful  knell, 

Of  the  coffin,  shroud,  and  bier ! 


DEAR  MOTHER.  WAS  IT  RIGHT? 

To  the  grove  beyond  the  meadow 

Where  the  stream  goes  rippling  by, 
In  the  twilight,  yester  even, 

Wandered  young  Glennhold  and  I ; 
And  when  the  twilight  deepened 

Into  the  shades  of  night, 
Still  in  the  grove  we  lingered: 

Dear  mother,  was  it  right  ? 

Was  it  right,  my  dearest  mother, 

As  we  wandered  thus  along, 
For  his  arm  to  be  around  me  ? 

I'm  sure  he  meant  no  harm, — 
And  when  a  flitting  cloud,  mother, 

Had  hid  the  moon's  pale  light, 
His  lips  he  pressed  to  mine : 

Oh,  tell  me,  was  it  right  ? 

Should  I  have  then  repulsed  him, 

When  he  promised  to  be  true  ? 
In  such  an  hour,  dear  mother, 

What  should  a  maiden  do  ? 
My  heart  was  wildly  beating, 

As  if  with  sore  affright — 
Yet  I  felt  more  joy  than  sadness : 

Dear  mother,  was  it  right? 

Was  it  right  that  I  should  tell  him 
I  would  love  him  all  my  life, 

And  both  in  joy  and  sorrow 
Prove  a  true  and  loving  wife  ? 


And  now,  dear  mother,  tell  me, 
And  make  me  happy  quite, 

If  I  did  not  yester  e'en 
Act  womanlike  and  right  ? 


MY  MOTHER. 

MOTHER,  thy  locks  are  growing  gray, 
Thy  form  is  bent  with  years, 

And  soon  thou'lt  bid  farewell  to  earth- 
Its  joys,  its  hopes,  its  fears. 

Yet  time  hath  gently  dealt  with  thee ; 

Adown  life's  billowy  sea 
Thy  bark  hath  sailed  without  a  wave 

Of  dark  adversity ! 

Thou  who  first  taught  my  infant  lips 

To  syllable  thy  name, 
To  thee  I  dedicate  this  lay ; 

Thou  who  art  still  the  same — 

The  same  kind  mother  of  my  youth 
And  manhood's  wayward  years  ; 

Ah  !  mother  dear,  I  fear  I've  caused 
Thee  many  bitter  tears. 

I  know  I  can  not  e'er  repay 

The  wealth  of  love  that's  thine — 

A  mother's  love  cannot  be  told 
In  feeble  verse  of  mine. 

Yet  will  I  strive  to  be  as  thou 
Thyself  wouldst  have  me  be, 

And  know  in  doing  thus  I'll  prove 
Sincerest  love  to  thee. 

And  shouldst  thou  be  the  first  to  pass 
The  shadowy  vale  of  death, 

Thy  blessing,  mother,  be  it  mine 
E'en  with  thy  latest  breath. 

Then  shall  I  better  be  prepared 

To  battle  on  through  life, 
And  meet  thee  in  the  spirit-land, 

Afar  from  earthly  strife. 


FRANCES  FULLER  BARRITT. 


FRANCES  FULLER  BARRITT  was  born  at  Rome,  New  York,  in  May,  1826.  When 
she  was  four  years  old  her  parents  re  moved  to  the  "pinery"  of  northern  Pennsylvania, 
and  there,  for  several  years,  she  enjoyed  nature  in  its  most  notable  moods,  receiving 
impressions  which,  at  a  later  day,  coined  themselves  into  expression.  In  1839  the 
family  removed  to  Wooster,  Ohio,  where,  under  the  influences  of  good  schools  and 
good  social  relations,  Frances  developed  rapidly.  To  such  a  nature  as  hers,  authorship 
is  a  necessity;  hence  we  are  not  surprised  to  learn  that,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  she 
became  an  acceptable  contributor  to  the  press.  Besides  poems  to  the  local  papers,  she 
wrote  a  story  "Seventy  Times  Seven"  for  the  Philadelphia  Saturday  Courier — then 
a  highly  popular  journal  of  light  literature — all  of  which,  for  a  girl  of  fourteen,  proved 
her  mind  to  be  one  of  no  ordinary  character.  She  had  for  a  companion,  besides  her 
sister  Metta,  a  girl  of  singular  endowments  of  mind,  Emeline  H.  Brown,  who,  m  her 
brief  life,  made  her  mark  as  a  poet.  Together,  these  three  read  and  talked  and  wrote  ; 
and  out  of  their  young  dreams  came  the  resolves  which  both  Frances  and  Metta  have 
since  so  entirely  fulfilled,  namely,  to  make  a  name  and  fame  for  themselves. 

Frances  early  became  a  contributor  to  the  leading  journals  of  belle-lettre  literature 
in  this  country.  In  1848  she  especially  succeeded  in  arresting  attention  through  the 
columns  of  the  New  York  Home  Journal,  whose  editors,  N.  P.  Willis  and  G.P.Morris,  did 
not  hesitate  to  give  her  a  foremost  position  among  current  female  authors.  "The  Post- 
Boy's  Song,"  "Resolution,"  "Kate,"  "The  Old  Man's  Favorite,"  "Keats,"  "The  De 
serted  City,"  "The  Country  Road,"  "The  Midnight  Banner,"  "Vision  of  the  Poor," 
"  Song  of  the  Age,"  were  poems  which  served  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  press  of 
England  as  well  as  of  America.  Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  his  somewhat  noted  paper  on  Mr. 
Griswold's  volume  of  "Female  Poets,"  took  occasion  to  refer  to  Miss  Fuller  as  among 
the  "  most  imaginative  "  of  our  lady  poets.  The  poems  above  named  are  character 
ized  by  a  power  of  diction  and  individuality  in  conception  which  give  them  the  force 
of  imaginative  creations ;  but  we  are  disposed  to  think  her  genius  is  not  representa 
tively  "imaginative"  according  to  Poe's  definition  of  that  word.  She  has  that  self- 
reliant  spirit  and  clearness  of  perception  which  betray  power  and  practicality — if  we 
may  be  permitted  the  use  of  such  a  word  in  speaking  of  true  poetry  ;  hence,  her 
poems,  full  of  fine  imagery  and  originality  of  conception  as  they  are,  still  are  marked 
with  the  correctness  of  the  real  rather  than  with  the  indefinitiveness  of  the  ideal. 
This  applies  more  particularly  to  the  productions  of  her  earlier  years — to  those  named 
above ;  her  poems  of  later  years  have  grown  more  introspective,  show  a  more  intense 
love  of  nature  in  her  quiet  moods,  and  may,  perhaps,  be  regarded  as  more  imaginative 
than  her  compositions  previous  to  1854. 

Miss  Fuller's  first  volume  was  given  to  the  public  in  1851,  under  the  editorial  super- 

(510) 


1850-60.] 


FRANCES    F.    BARRITT. 


511 


vision  of  the  late  Rufus  W.  Griswold.  It  embraced  most  of  the  compositions  named 
above,  and  others  of  very  decided  merit.  "  Azlea,  a  Tragedy,"  the  most  lengthy  of  her 
productions,  is  a  composition  marked  by  the  true  dramatic  instinct,  which,  while  it  carries 
along  the  thread  of  the  story,  with  a  firm  hand,  weaves  in,  with  a  subtle  perception  of 
the  fitness  of  position  and  scene,  the  lights  and  shades  of  character,  which  awaken  a 
living  personal  interest  in  the  drama.  It  was  written  in  1846. 

In  the  year  1853  Miss  Fuller  was  married  to  Jackson  Barritt,  of  Pontiac,  Michi 
gan,  to  which  State  she  had  removed  in  1852.  In  1855  Mrs.  Barritt  removed  to  the 
far  West,  in  quest  of  that  "  New  Atlantis  "  which  speculators  would  fain  have  us  believe 
lies  west  of  the  Missouri.  In  the  excitement  and  hardships  of  a  pioneer  life  the  poet 
had  little  incentive  to  write ;  yet  she  was  maturing  in  those  experiences  through  which 
all  must  pass  who  truly  and  fully  penetrate  the  great  mysteries  of  character  and  life. 
We  find  in  her  later  poems — among  which  we  may  mention  "Passing  by  Helicon," 
"The  Palace  of  Imagination,"  "Autumnalia,"  "Moonlight  Memories" — a  profound 
sense  of  circumstances  and  realities  of  existence,  which  shows  how  her  mind  has  la 
bored  with  itself. 

Mrs.  Barritt  has  been  drawn  into  the  great  literary,  as  it  is  the  great  commercial, 
metropolis  of  the  Union,  New  York  City,  like  other  leading  writers,  of  whom  the  West 
has  reason  to  be  proud.  Mrs.  Barritt  is  engaged  upon  various  literary  labors,  con 
tributes  to  our  leading  magazines  both  prose  and  poetry,  and,  should  her  life  be  spared, 
will  prove  one  of  our  most  successful  and  serviceable  authors. 


THE  POST-BOY'S  SONG. 

THE  night  is  dark  and  the  way  is  long, 

And  the  clouds  are  flying  fast ; 
The  night-wind  sings  a  dreary  song, 

And  the  trees  creak  in  the  blast  : 
The  moon  is  down  in  the  tossing  sea, 

And  the  stars  shed  not  a  ray  ; 
The  lightning  flashes  frightfully, 

But  I  must  on  my  way. 

Full  many  a  hundred  times  have  I 

Gone  o'er  it  in  the  dark, 
Till  my  faithful  steeds  can  well  descry 

Each  long  familiar  mark  : 
Withal,  should  peril  come  to-night, 

God  have  us  in  his  care ! 
For  without  help,  and  without  light, 

The  boldest  well  beware. 


Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  fate, 

Forward  and  back  I  go : 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  woe ; 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  to  all; 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  cannot  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 


Now  on,  my  steeds  !  the  lightning's  flash 

An  instant  gilds  our  way  ; 
But  steady  !  by  that  dreadful  crash 

The  heavens  seemed  rent  away. 
Soho !  here  comes  the  blast  anew, 

And  a  pelting  flood  of  rain  ; 
Steady !  a  sea  seems  bursting  through 

A  rift  in  some  upper  main. 

'Tis  a  terrible  night,  a  dreary  hour, 
But  who  will  remember  to  pray 


512 


FRANCES    F.   BARRITT. 


[1850-60. 


That   the    care   of    the   storm-controlling 

power 

May  be  over  the  post-boy's  way  ? 
The  wayward  wanderer  from  his  home, 

The  sailor  upon  the  sea, 
Have  prayers  to  bless  them  where  they 

roam — 
Who  thinketh  to  pray  for  me  ? 

But  the  scene  is  changed !    up  rides  the 
moon 

Like  a  ship  upon  the  sea ; 
Now  on  my  steeds !  this  glorious  noon 

Of  a  night  so  dark  shall  be 
A  scene  for  us  ;  toss  high  your  heads 

And  cheerily  speed  away ; 
We  shall  startle  the  sleepers  in  their  beds 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 

Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  fate 

Forward  and  back  I  go : 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  woe : 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  for  all ; 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  cannot  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 


SONG  OF  THE  AGE. 

MEN  talk  of  the  iron  age — 

Of  the  golden  age  they  prate, 
And  with  sigh  on  lips  so  sage 

Discourse  of  our  fallen  state. 
They  tell  of  the  stalwart  frames 

Our  gallant  grandsires  bore ; 
But,  honor  to  their  good  names, 
This  century  asks  for  more  : 
It  aeks  for  men  with  the  toiling  brains, 
Whose  words  can  undo  the  captive's  chains, 
For  men  of  right  and  men  of  might, 
Whose  heads,  not  hands,  decide  the  fight ! 


And  a  mighty  band  they  come, 

More  strong  than  the  hosts  of  old ; 
Nor  by  clarion  blast  nor  drum 

Is  their  onward  march  foretold. 
But  with  firm  and  silent  tread, 

And  with  true  hearts  heaving  high, 
On,  on  where  the  wrong  hath  led — 

They  will  vanquish  it  or  die! 
And  they  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 
With  the  fearless  souls  of  honest  men, 
Like  men  of  right  and  men  of  might, 
Whose  heads,  not  hands,  decide  the  fight 

Tell  not  of  the  ages  past, 

There  is  darkness  on  their  brow; 
For  truth  has  only  come  at  last, 

And  the  only  time  is  now  ! 
Away  with  your  empty  love, 

And  your  cant  of  other  times, 
For  mind  is  the  spell  of  power — 
Ye  will  learn  its  might  betimes  ! 
For  this  is  the  age  of  toiling  brains, 
Of  liberties  won,  and  broken  chains, 
Of  men  of  right  and  men  of  might, 
Whose  heads,  not  hands,  decide  the  fight. 


RESOLUTION. 

ROOM,  room  for  the  freed  spirit !     Let  it 
fling 

Its  pinions  worn  with  bondage  once  more 

wide, 
And  if  in  earth  or  air  there  is  a  thing 

To  stay  its  soaring,  let  the  heavens  chide ! 
Away,  the  silken  bondage  of  young  dreams ; 

No  more  in  gentle  dalliance  I'll  lay 
My  hand  upon  my  lute,  like  one  who  seems 

In  half  unconscious  idleness  to  play. 

But  all  there  is  in  me  of  living  soul, 

Of    high,  proud  daring,    or  of  untried 
trust, 


1850-60.] 


FRANCES    F.    BARRITT. 


51:5 


Shall  not  be  subject  longer  to  control ; 

For  my  desire  is  upward,  and  I  must 
Spurn  back  the  fetters  of  the  slothful  past 

As  the  loosed  captive  tramples  on  his 

chain ; 
From  now,  henceforth,  my  destiny  is  cast, 

And  what  I  will,  I  surely  shall  attain. 

Onward    and   upward!    strengthening    in 

their  flight, 
My  thoughts  must  "all  be  eagle  thoughts," 

nor  bend 
Their    pinions    downward,    until    on    th 

height 

That  nurses  Helicon's  pure  fount  I  stand. 
Onward  my  soul !  nor  either  shrink  nor 

turn, 

Be  cold  to  pleasure  and  be  calm  to  pain ; 
However   much    the  yielding   heart  may 

yearn, 
Listen  not,  listen  not,  it  is  in  vain ! 

Upward!    "a   feeling   like   the    sense   of 

wings," 
A  proud,  triumphant  feeling  buoys  me 

up, 
And  my  soul  drinks  refreshment   from  the 

springs 

That  fill  forever  joy's  enchanted  cup. 
A  glorious  sense  of  power  within  me  lies, 
A  knowledge  of  my  yet  untested  strength, 
And  my  impatient  spirit  only  sighs 
For  the  far  goal  to  attain  at  length. 


THE  PALACE  OF  IMAGINATION. 


FULL  of  beauty,  full  of  art  and  treasure, 
Is  that  palace  where  my  soul  was  bound; 

Filled  harmoniously  with  every  pleasure 
Sweet  to  sense,  or  exquisite  of  sound. 

Light  whose  softness  rival  summer  shad 
ows — 
Shadows  only  softer  than  the  light, 


Like  those  clouds   that  dapple   the  June 

meadows, 

Make   its   chambers   rarely    dark    and 
bright. 

Nightingales  are  nested  in  its  bowers  ; 

Unseen  singers  stir  the  fragrant  air ; 
Fountains  drop  their  musical,  cool  shadows 

Into  basins  alabaster  fair. 

Ancient  myths  are  storied  here  in  marble, 
Busts  of  poets  people  every  nook — 

P'orms  so  like  the  living,  that  the  warble 
Of  their  voices  thrills  you  as  you  look. 

Rare  creations  of  all  times  and  ages. 

Wrought  by  inspiration  of  high  art, 
Live  in  sculpture,  speak  from  gilded  pages, 

Throng  with  beauty  its  remotest  part. 

In  this  Palace  did  my  soul  awaken, 

From  what  Past  it  thirsted  not  to  know; 

With  the  bright  existence  it  had  taken 
Wandering,     tranced — like     Cherubim 
a-glow. 

Till,  from  dreaming,  rose  unquiet  fancies — 
Frightful  phantoms  glided  in  and  out: 

Gnomes   and    ghouls  read    of  in   old   ro 
mances, 
Haunted  all  its  shadowy  halls  about ! 

Then  my  soul  sat  with  averted  vision, 
Cold  and  pallid  in  a  nameless  fear, 

Seeing  with  inward  eyes  a  new  elysian 
Dream  of  pleasure,  inaccessible  here. 

And  she  uttered,  sighing  deep  and  sadly, 

"  Here,  though  all  is  fair,  yet  all  is  cold; 
I  would  change  my  matchless  palace  glad- 

For   one   hour   of  life   in   love's  warm 
fold." 

This  she  said,  and  straight  the  sapphire 

air 
In  the  palace,  rosy  grew,  and  gold ; 


33 


FRANCES    F.    BARRITT. 


[1850-60. 


Statues  pale,  and  pictures  heavenly  fair, 
Blushed  and    breathed   like  forms    of 
earthly  mould. 

Happy  laughter  with  the  zephyrs  mingled, 
Sweet  young  voices  murmured   Love's 

soft  words  ; 
Lightning  rays  along  my  soul-nerves  tin- 

gled, 

Till  it   fluttered  like   its   young   brood 
birds. 

Now  my  soul  no  longer  pale  or  pining, 
With  sweet  mirth  makes  its  rare  palace 
sound ; 

Golden  light  through  every  shadow  shining. 
Shows  the  beauty  lying  waste  around. 


PASSING  BY  HELICON. 

MY  steps  are  turned  away ; 
Yet  my  eyes  linger  still, 
On  their  beloved  hill, 
In  one  long,  last  survey  : 
Gazing    through  tears,  that   multiply  the 

view, 
Their  passionate  adieu. 

O,  joy-unclouded  height, 

Down  whose  enchanted  sides, 
The  rosy  mist  now  glides, 

How  can  I  lose  thy  sight  ? — 
How  can  my  eyes  turn  where  my  feet  must 

g°, 
Trailing  their  way  in  woe  ? 

Gone  is  my  strength  of  heart ; — 
The  roses  that  I  brought, 
From  thy  dear  bowers,  and  thought 

To  keep,  since  we  must  part — 
Thy  thornless  roses,  sweeter  until  now, 

Than  'round  Hymettus'  brow, 


The  golden-vested  bees, 

Find  sweetest  sweetness  in  ; — 
Such  odors  dwelt  within 

The  moist  red  hearts  of  these — 
Alas,  no  longer  give  out  blissful  breath, 

But  odors  rank  with  death. 

Their  dewiness  is  dank ; 

It  chills  my  pallid  arms. 

Once  blushing  'neath  their  charms ; 
And  their  green  stems  hang  lank, 
Stricken  with  leprosy,  and  fair  no  more, 
But  withered  to  the  core. 

Vain  thought !  to  bear  along 
Into  this  torrid  track,* 
Whence  no  one  turneth  back, 

With  his  first  wanderer's  song 
Yet  on  his  lips,  thy  odors  and  thy  dews, 

To  deck  these  dwarfed  yews. 

No  more  within  thy  vales, 
Beside  thy  plashing  wells, 
Where  sweet  Euterpe  dwells, 
With  songs  of  nightingales, 
And  sounds  of  flutes  that  make  pale  silence 

glow, 
Shall  I  their  rapture  know. 

Farewell,  ye  stately  palms  ! 
Clashing  your  cymbal  tones, 
In  through  the  mystic  moans 

Of  pines  at  solemn  psalms  ; — 
Ye  myrtles,  singing  Love's  inspired  song, 

We  part,  and  part  for  long ! 

Farewell,  majestic  peaks ! 
Whereon  my  list'ning  soul 
Hath  trembled  to  the  roll 

Of  thunders  which  Jove  wreaks, — 
And  calm  Minerva's  oracles  hath  heard, 

All  more  than  now  unstirred  ! 

Adieu,  ye  beds  of  bloom ! 
No  more  shall  zephyr  bring 
To  me,  upon  his  wing, 


1850-60.] 


FRANCES   F.   BARRITT. 


515 


Your  loveliest  perfume ; 
No  more  upon  your  pure,  immortal  dyes, 
Shall  rest  my  happy  eyes. 

I  pass  by :  at  thy  foot 
O,  mount  of  my  delight ! 
Ere  yet  from  out  thy  sight 

I  drop  my  voiceless  lute ; 
It  is  in  vain  to  strive  to  carry  hence 

Its  olden  eloquence. 

Your  sacred  groves  no  more 
My  singing  shall  prolong, 
With  echoes  of  my  song 

Doubling  it  o'er  arid  o'er. 
Haunt  of  the  muses,  lost  to  wistful  eyes 

What  dreams  of  thee  shall  rise ! 

Rise  but  to  be  dispelled, — 
For  here  where  I  am  cast, 
Such  visions  may  not  last, 

By  sterner  fancies  quelled  : — 
Relentless  Nemesis  my  doom  hath  sent, 

This  cruel  banishment ! 


CHILDHOOD. 

A  CHILD  of  scarcely  seven  years — 

Light-haired,  and  fair  as  any  lily ; 
With  pure  eyes  ready  in  their  tears 

At  chiding  words  or  glances  chilly  : 
And  sudden  smiles  as  inly  bright 

As  lamps  through  alabaster  shining, 
With  ready  mirth  and  fancies  light, 

Dashed  with   strange  dreams  of  child- 
divining  : 

A  child  in  all  infantile  grace, 
Yet  with  the  angel  lingering  in  her  face. 

A  curious,  eager,  questioning  child, 
Whose  logic  leads  to  naive  conclusions 

Her  little  knowledge  reconciled 

To  truth,  amid  some  odd  confusions : 


Yet  credulous,  and  loving  much, 

The  problems  hardest  for  her  reason ; 

Placing  her  lovely  faith  on  such, 

And  deeming  disbelief  a  treason  ; — 

Doubting  that  which  she  can  disprove, 

And  wisely  trusting  all  the  rest  to  love. 

Such  graces  dwell  beside  your  hearth, 

And  bless  you  in  a  priceless  pleasure ; 
Leaving  no  sweeter  spot  on  earth 

Than  that  which  holds  your  household 

treasure. 
No  entertainment  ever  yet 

Had  half  the  exquisite  completeness — 
The  gladness  without  one  regret, 

You  gather  from  your  darling's  sweet 
ness : 
An  angel  sits  beside  the  hearth, 

Where'er  an  innocent  child  ic  found  on 
earth. 


AUTUMNALIA. 

THE  crimson  color  lays 
As  bright  as  beauty's  blush  along  the  West : 

And  a  warm,  golden  haze, 
Promising  sheafs  of  ripe  autumnal  days 

To  crown  the  old  year's  crest, 
Hangs  in  mid-air,  a  half-pellucid  maze, 

Through  which  the  sun,  at  set, 
Grown  round  and  rosy,  looks  with  Bacchian 
blush, 

For  an  old  wine-god  meet, 
Whose  brows  are  dripping  with  the  grape- 
blood  sweet, 

As  if  his  Southern  flush 
Rejoiced  him  in  his  Northern-zoned  retreat. 

The  amber-colored  air, 
Musical  is  with  hum  of  tiny  things 

Held  idly  struggling  there, — 
As  if  the  golden  mist  untangled  were 

About  the  viewless  wings 
That  beat  out  music  on  the  gilded  snare. 


516 


FRANCES    F.   BARRITT. 


[1850-60. 


If  but  a  leaf,  all  gay 
"With  autumn's  gorgeous  coloring,  doth  fall? 

Along  its  fluttering  way 
A  shrill  alarum  wakes  a  sharp  dismay, 

And,  answering  to  the  call, 
The  insect  chorus  swells  and  dies  away, 

With  a  fine,  piping  noise, 
As  if  some  younger  singing  mote  cried  out; 

As  do  mischievous  boys, 
Startling   their   playmates  with  a  pained 
voice, 

Or  sudden,  thrilling  shout, 
Followed  by  laughter,  full  of  little  joys. 

Perchance  a  lurking  breeze 
Springs,   just  awakened,   to  its  wayward 

play, 

Tossing  the  sober  trees 
Into  a  thousand  graceful  vagaries  ; 

And  snatching  at  the  gay 
Banners  of  autumn,  strews  them  where  it 
please. 

The  sunset  colors  glow 
A  second  time  in  flame  from  out  the  wood, 

As  bright  and  warm  as  though 
The  vanished  clouds  had  fallen  and  lodged 
below 

Among  the  tree-tops,  hued 
With  all  the  colors  of  heaven's  signal  bow. 

The  fitful  breezes  die 
Into  a  gentle  whisper,  and  then  sleep ; 

And  sweetly,  mournfully, 
Starting  to  sight  in  the  transparent  sky — 

Lone  in  the  "  upper  deep," 
Sad  Hesper  pours  its  beams  upon  the  eye, 

And  for  one  little  hour 
Holds  audience  with  the  lesser  lights  of 
heaven ; 

Then,  to  its  Western  bower 
Descends  in  sudden  darkness,  as  the  flower 

That  at  the  fall  of  even 
Shuts  its  bright  eye,  and  yields  to  sorrow's 
power. 


Soon,  with  a  dusky  face, 
Pensive  and  proud  as  some   East-Indian 

queen, 

And  with  a  solemn  grace, 
The  moon  ascends,  and  takes  her  royal 

place 

In  the  fair  evening  scene, 
And  Night  sits  crowned  in  Beauty's  sweet 
embrace. 

My  soul,  filled  to  the  brim, 
And  half  intoxicate  with  loveliness, 

Sighs  out  its  happy  hymn ; 
And  in  the  overflow  my  eyes  grow  dim 

With  a  still  happiness; 
Till,   voiceless   with   the   rapture   of    my 
dream, 

I  yield  my  spirit  up  unto  the  bliss 
Of  perfect  peace,  sad  by  its  sweet  excess. 


A    LITTLE     BIRD     THAT     EVERY     ONE 
KNOWS. 

THERE  is  a  bird,  with  a  wond'rous  song, 
A  little  bird  that  every  one  knows 
(Though  it  sings  for  the  most  part  under 

the  rose), 
That  is  petted  and  pampered  wherever 

it  goes, 
And  nourished  in  bosoms  gentle  and  strong. 

This  petted  bird  has  a  crooked  beak, 
And  eyes  like  live  coals  set  in  its  head, 
And  a  gray  breast,  dappled  with  glowing 

red- 
Dabbled,  not  dappled,  it  should  be  said — 

From  a  fancy  it  has  of  which  I  may  speak. 

This  eccentricity  that  I  name 

Is,  that  whatever  the  bird  would  sing, 
It  dips  its  black  head  under  its  wing, 
And     moistens     its    beak    in — darling 
thing ! — 

A  human  heart  that  is  broken  with  shame. 


1850-60.] 


FRANCES    F.    BARRITT. 


517 


Then  this  cherished  bird  its  song  begins — 
Always  begins  its  song  one  way — 
With  two   little  dulcet   words — "  They 

say"— 
Carroled  in  such  a  charming  way 

That  the  listener's  heart  it  surely  wins. 

This  sweetest  of  songsters,  sits  beside 
Every  hearth  in  this  Christian  land, 
Never  so  humble  or  never  so  grand, 
Gloating  o'er   crumbs,  which   many   a 
hand 

Gathers  to  nourish  it,  far  and  wide. 

O'er  each  crumb  that  it  gathers  up 

It  winningly  carols  those  two  soft  words, 
In  the  winning  voice  of  the  sweetest  of 

birds — 
Darting  its  black  head  under  its  wing, 

As  it  might  in  a  ruby  drinking-cup. 

A  delicate  thing  is  this  bird  withal, 
And  owns  but  a  fickle  appetite, 
And  old  and  young  take  a  keen  delight 
In  serving  it  ever,  day  and  night 

With  the  last  gay  heart,  now  turned  to  gall. 

Thus,  though  a  dainty  dear,  it  sings, 
In  a  very  well-conditioned  way, 
A  truly  wonderful  sort  of  lay, 
While  its  burden  is  ever  the  same — 
"They  say," 

Darting  its  crooked  beak  under  its  wings. 


WAITING. 

No  fairer  eve  e'er  blessed  a  poet's  vision, 

No  softer  airs  e'er  kissed  a  fevered  brow, 
No  scene  more  truly  could  be  called  ely- 

sian, 

Than  this  which  holds  my  gaze  enchant 
ed  now. 


Lonely  I  sit,  and  watch  the  fitful  burning 
Of  prairie  fires  far  off,  through  gathering 

gloom, 
While  the  young  moon  and  one  bright  star 

returning 

Down  the  blue  solitude,  leave  night  their 
room. 

Gone  is  the  glimmer  of  the  eternal  river, 
Hushed  is  the  wind  that  ope'd  the  leaves 

to-day ; 
Alone    through   silence   falls    the   crystal 

shiver 

Of  the  calm  starlight  on  its  earthward 
way, 

And  yet  I  wait,  how  vainly !  for  a  token — 
A  sigh,  a  touch,  a  whisper  from  the  past ; 

Alas,  I  listen  for  a  word  unspoken, 

And  wail  for  arms  that  have  embraced 
their  last. 

I   wish  no   more,  as  once  I  wished,  each 

feeling 

To  grow  immortal  in  my  happy  breast ; 
Since  not  to  feel,  will  leave  no  wounds  for 

healing ; 

The  pulse  that  thrills  not  has  no  need  of 
rest. 

As  the  conviction  sinks  into  my  spirit 
That  my  quick  heart  is  doomed  to  death 

in  life; 
?  that  these  pangs  shall  wound  and  never 

sear  it, 
I  am  abandoned  to  despairing  strife. 

To  the  lost  life,   alas !    no  more   return 
ing— 
In  this  to   come  no  semblance   of    the 

past — 

3nly  to  wait ! — hoping  this  ceaseless  yearn 
ing 

May  ere  long  end — and  rest  may  come 
at  last. 


METTA   VICTORIA   VICTOR. 


METTA  VICTORIA  FULLER  was  born  in  Erie,  Pennsylvania,  March  second,  1831, 
— the  third  child  of  a  family  of  five,  of  whom  Frances  A.  Fuller  (Mrs.  Barritt)  was 
the  eldest.  From  mere  childhood  she  manifested  a  love  for  books  of  fancy  and  poetry, 
and  undertook  rhythmic  composition  before  the  age  of  ten  years,  with  a  success  which 
rendered  her  a  prodigy  in  the  eyes  of  teachers  and  scholars.  Her  parents  having  re 
moved  to  Wooster,  Ohio,  in  1839,  she  then  enjoyed  for  several  years  the  advantages 
of  good  schools.  Her  mental  development  was  rapid.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  years 
she  really  commenced  the  career  of  authorship  which,  with  slight  interruptions,  she 
has  successfully  pursued  up  to  the  present  time.  "  The  Silver  Lute,"  an  exquisite 
tale  which  was  widely  admired,  was  written  and  published  in  1844. 

Between  the  ages  of  thirteen  and  fifteen,  Miss  Fuller  produced  many  poems  and 
tales — all  of  which  met  with  great  favor  at  the  hands  of  local  publishers.  At  fifteen 
she  wrote  the  romance  "  The  Last  Days  of  Tul " — founded  upon  the  supposed  histo 
ry  of  the  dead  cities  of  Yucatan.  It  was  published  in  Boston  in  1846.  At  the  age 
of  sixteen,  she  produced  stories  of  much  brilliancy  of  fancy — and  then  made  a  brill 
iant  debut  in  the  New  York  Home  Journal,  edited  by  Nathaniel  P.  Willis  and  George 
P.  Morris,  and  for  some  time  was  the  "  bright,  particular  star "  of  that  sheet.  Mr. 
Willis  wrote  of  her,  and  her  sister,  Frances  A.  (likewise  a  special  contributor  to  the 
Journal}  : 

We  suppose  ourselves  to  be  throwing  no  shade  of  disparagement  upon  any  one  in  declaring  that, 
in  "  Singing  Sybil"  (Miss  Fuller's  nom  deplume),  and  her  not  less  gifted  sister  Frances,  we  discern 
more  unquestionable  marks  of  true  genius,  and  a  greater  portion  of  the  unmistakable  inspiration 
of  true  poetic  art  than  in  any  of  the  lady  minstrels — delightful  and  splendid  as  some  of  them  have 
been — that  we  have  heretofore  ushered  to  the  applause  of  the  public.  One  in  spirit,  and  equal  in 
genius,  these  most  interesting  and  brilliant  ladies — both  still  in  the  earliest  youth — are  undoubted 
ly  destined  to  occupy  a  very  distinguished  and  permanent  place  among  the  native  authors  of  this 
land. 

High  praise  when  we  consider  that  it  was  "  Fanny  Forester,"  brilliant  "  Edith 
May."  and  "  Grace  Greenwood,"  whom  he  had  "ushered  to  the  applause  of  the  public." 
Among  the  tales  furnished  the  Journal  were,  "  The  Tempter :  a  sequel  to  the  Wan 
dering  Jew;"  "The  Lost  Glove;"  "Mother  and  Daughter" — all  of  which  were  re- 
published  far  and  wide.  Her  poetic  contributions,  during  the  same  time,  were  numer 
ous,  and  served  to  excite  considerable  remark  in  critical  circles. 

The  first  volume  of  poems  of  the  sisters  was  collected  under  the  editorship  of  the 
late  Rufus  W.  Griswold,  and  published  by  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.,  in  1850.  In  the  fall 
of  the  same  year  Derby  &  Co.,  of  Buffalo,  gathered  together  and  published  a  volume 
of  stories  from  the  pen  of  Metta,  under  the  title  "  Fresh  Leaves  from  Western  Woods." 
It  included  "The  Tempter,"  the  "Silver  Lute,"  the  "Lost  Glove,"  "Mother  and 
Daughter,"  etc.;  and,  as  a  publishers'  venture,  proved  a  success.  "The  Senator's 

(518) 


1850-60.]  MUTT  A    V.    VICTOR.  519 

Son;  a  plea  for  the  Maine  Law,"  was  brought  out  in  the  fall  of  1851.  Six  large 
editions  of  this  work  have  been  sold  in  this  country,  and  a  sale  of  thirty  thousand 
copies  in  England  was  acknowledged  by  the  foreign  publishers. 

The  years  between  1852  and  1855  were  devoted  by  Miss  Fuller  almost  entirely  to 
study — only  venturing  upon  authorship  to  write  an  occasional  "  prize  story,"  or  to 
fulfill  a  magazine  engagement.  During  these  years  she  carefully  canvassed  the  field 
of  English  Literature  in  its  higher  walks  of  Philosophy,  Criticism,  Biography  and 
Poetry.  In  1856  Derby  &  Jackson,  of  New  York,  published  "The  Two  Wives,"  a 
sad  story  (founded  in  fact)  of  the  ruin  wrought  by  the  Mormon  faith.  The  work  still 
has  a  good  sale. 

In  July,  1856,  Miss  Fuller  was  united  in  marriage  to  0.  J.  Victor,  and  removed, 
the  year  following,  to  New  York  City,  where  she  still  resides,  pursuing  the  career  of 
authorship  successfully. 

Mrs.  Victor  is  understood  to  be  the  author  of  those  humorous  papers  published  in 
Godey's  Ladys  Book,  entitled  "The  Tallow  Family  in  America,"  and  "Miss  Slim- 
men's  Window;"  collected  and  published  in  an  illustrated  volume  by  Derby  &  Jack 
son,  of  New  York,  in  1859.  She  is  also  said  to  be  the  author  of  several  humorous 
and  satirical  poems  which  have  excited  no  little  curiosity  in  literary  circles,  viz. : — 
"What's  in  a  Name?  a  High  Life  Tragedy;"  "Starting  the  Paper;"  "The  Stilts  of 
Gold;"  "The  Ballad  of  Caleb  Cornstalk."  The  "Arctic  Queen"— a  poem  of  marked 
originality  and  of  striking  character — published  in  a  private  edition  at  Sandusky, 
Ohio,  in  1856,  is  from  her  pen.  Those  somewhat  remarkable  stories  published  in 
the  Art  Journal,  of  New  York  City,  "  Painted  in  Character,"  "  The  Phantom  Wife," 
"  From  Arcadia  to  Avernus,"  are  attributed  upon  good  authority  to  her  hand.  It  will 
be  perceived  by  this  record  of  her  labors  that  Mrs.  Victor  is  unusually  endowed;  her 
success  has  been  remarkable  in  poetry  of  imagination  and  fancy :  in  humor  and 
satire,  prose  and  verse ;  in  fiction  and  romance ;  in  tales  of  purely  imaginative  creation ; 
as  well  as  in  the  departments  of  literary  criticism,  and  essays  upon  popular  themes. 

The  selections  for  these  pages  are  made  from  late  poems  Mrs.  Victor  has  acknowl 
edged.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  will  confess  to  the  ownership  of  the  humorous 
poems  above  named,  by  gathering  them  for  publication  in  a  volume.  It  will  prove  an 
acceptable  contribution  to  our  humorous  literature. 

"  Body  and  Soul "  is  a  poem  of  true  inspiration.  It  shows  a  power  in  its  develop 
ment  which  renders  its  impression  a  lasting  one.  It  has  come  back  from  England 
with  high  approval.  "  The  Red  Hunters,"  as  a  description  of  the  fearful  phenomenon 
of  a  prairie  on  fire,  is  a  vivid,  stirring  characterization.  "The  Honeysuckle"  stands 
in  strong  contrast  to  these  two  just  named,  being  a  pure  piece  of  fancy,  woven  with 
exquisite  grace,  and  showing  the  author's  extreme  sensibility  to  the  spiritual  expres 
sions  of  nature.  "  The  Two  Pictures "  has  the  fire  of  imagination  in  its  finely 
rhy  thmed  diction.  "  The  Wine  of  Parnassus  "  is  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  a  poet  who 
has  quaffed  deeply  at  the  Parnassian  spring. 


520 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


[1850-60. 


THE  RED  HUNTERS. 

OUT  of  the  wood  at  midnight, 

The  swift  red  hunters  came  ; 
The  prairie  was  their  hunting-ground, 

The  bison  were  their  game. 
Their  spears  were  of  glist'ning  silver, 

Their  crests  were  of  blue  and  gold ; 
Driven  by  the  panting  winds  of  heaven, 

Their  shining  chariots  rolled. 

Over  that  level  hunting-ground — 

Oh,  what  a  strife  was  there ! 
What  a  shouting — what  a  threat'ning  cr y — 

What  a  murmur  on  the  air! 
Their  garments  over  the  glowing  wheels 

Streamed  backward  red  and  far ; 
They  flouted  their  purple  banners 

In  the  face  of  each  pale  star. 

Under  their  tread  the  autumn  flowers 

By  myriads  withering  lay  ; 
Poor  things !  that  from  those  golden  wheels 

Could  nowhere  shrink  away  ! 
Close,  and  crashing  together, 

The  envious  chariots  rolled, 
While,  anon  before  his  fellows 

Leaped  out  some  hunter  bold. 

Their  hot  breath,  thick  and  lowering, 

About  their  wild  eyes  hung, 
And,  around  their  frowning  foreheads, 

Like  wreaths  of  nightshade  clung. 
The  bison  !  ho,  the  bison  ! 

They  cried,  and  answered  back ; 
Poor  herds  of  frightened  creatures, 

With  such  hunters  on  their  track ! 

With  a  weary,  lumbering  swiftness, 

They  sought  the  river's  side, 
Driven  by  those  hunters  from  their  sleep 

Into  its  chilling  tide. 
Some  face  their  foe,  with  anguish 

Dilating  their  brute  eyes — 
The  spears  of  silver  strike  them  low, 

And  dead  each  suppliant  lies. 


Now,  by  the  brightening  river 

The  red  hunters  stand  at  bay ; 
Vain  the  appalling  splendor — 

The  river  shields  their  prey  ! 
Into  its  waves,  with  baffled  rage, 

They  leap  in  death's  despite — 
Their  golden  wheels  roll  roaring  in, 

And  leave  the  withered  night. 


BODY  AND  SOUL. 

A  LIVING  soul  came  into  the  world — 
Whence  came  it  ?     Who  can  tell  ? 

Or  where  that  soul  went  forth  again, 
When  it  bade  the  world  farewell  ? 

A  body  it  had,  this  spirit  new, 

And  the  body  was  given  a  name, 
And  chance  and  change  and  circumstance 

About  its  being  came. 
Whether  the  name  would  suit  the  soul 

The  givers  never  knew — 
Names  are  alike,  but  never  souls  : 

So  body  and  spirit  grew, 
Till  time  enlarged  their  narrow  sphere 

Into  the  realms  of  life, 
Into  this  strange  and  double  world, 

Whose  elements  are  at  strife. 

'Twere  easy  to  tell  the  daily  paths 

Walked  by  the  body's  feet, 
To  mark  where  the  sharpest  stones  were 
laid, 

Or  where  the  grass  grew  sweet ; 
To  tell  if  it  hungered,  or  what  its  dress, 

Ragged,  or  plain,  or  rare  ; 
What  was  its  forehead — what  its  voice, 

Or  the  hue  of  its  eyes  and  hair. 

But  these  are  all  in  the  common  dust ; 

And  the  spirit — where  is  it  ? 
Will  any  say  if  the  hue  of  the  eyes, 

Or  the  dress,  for  that  was  fit? 


18f>0-tiO.] 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


521 


Will  any  one  say  what  daily  paths 

That  spirit  went  or  came — 
Whether  it  rested  in  beds  of  flowers, 

Or  shrunk  upon  beds  of  flame  ? 
Can  any  one  tell,  upon  stormy  nights, 

When  the  body  was  safely  at  home, 
Where,  amid  darkness,  terror,  and  gloom, 

Its  friend  was  wont  to  roam  ? 
Where,  upon  hills  beneath  the  blue  skies, 

It  rested  soft  and  still, 
Flying  straight  out  of  its  half-closed  eyes, 

That  friend  went  wandering  at  will  ? 

High  as  the  bliss  of  the  highest  heaven, 

Low  as  the  lowest  hell, 
With  hope  and  fear  it  winged  its  way 

On  journeys  none  may  tell. 

It  lay  on  the  rose's  fragrant  breast, 

It  bathed  in  the  ocean  deep, 
It  sailed  in  a  ship  of  sunset  cloud, 

And  it  heard  the  rain-cloud  weep. 
It  laughed  with  naiads  in  murmurous  caves, 

It  was  struck  by  the  lightning's  flash, 
It  drank  from  the  moonlit  lily -cup, 

It  heard  the  iceberg's  crash. 

It  haunted  places  of  old  renown, 

It  basked  in  thickets  of  flowers ; 
It  fled  on  the  wings  of  the  stormy  wind, 

It  dreamed  through  the  star-lit  hours, 
Alas !  a  soul's  strange  history 

Never  was  written  or  known, 
Though  the  name  and  age  of  its  earthly 
part 

Be  graven  upon  the  stone ! 

It  hated,  and  overcame  its  hate — 

It  loved  to  youth's  excess — 
It  was  mad  with  anguish,  wild  with  joy, 

It  had  visions  to  grieve  and  to  bless ; 
It  drank  of  the  honey-dew  of  dreams, 

For  it  was  a  poet  true ; 
Secrets  of  nature  and  secrets  of  mind, 

Mysteriously  it  knew. 


Should  mortals  question  its  history, 

They  would  ask  if  it  had  gold — 
If    it   bathed    and    floated   in    deeps   of 
wealth — 

If  it  traded,  and  bought,  and  sold. 
They  would  prize  its  worth  by  the  outward 
dress 

By  which  its  body  was  known : 
As  if  a  soul  must  eat  and  sleep, 

And  live  on  money  alone ! 

It  had  no  need  to  purchase  lands, 

For  it  owned  the  whole  broad  earth ; 
'Twas  of  royal  rank,  for  all  the  past 

Was  its  by  right  of  birth. 
All  beauty  in  the  world  below 

Was  its  by  right  of  love, 
And  it  had  a  great  inheritance 

In  the  nameless  realms  above. 

It  has  gone !  the  soul  so  little  known — 
Its  body  has  lived  and  died — 

Gone  from  the  world  so  vexing,  small : 
But  the  Universe  is  wide ! 


THE  WINE  OF  PARNASSUS. 

THE  wine  of  Parnassus  is  mingled  with 
fire; 

It  is  drunken  with  pleasure  and  pain : 
Who  quaffs  of  it  once  must  forever  desire 

Its  ethereal  fumes  in  his  brain. 


It  is  drugged  with  a  sadness  immortally 

deep, 
That   low   down    in    the   beaker   doth 

swim  ; 

While  the  silvery  bubbles  of  joy  overleap, 
Or  in  splendor  subside  on  the  brim. 

And  the  grapes,  ah !  the  grapes  that  were 

torn  from  the  breast 
Of  the  clinging  and  passionate  vine — 


522 


METTA    V.   VICTOR. 


[1850-60. 


The  life  from  their  hearts  in  its  richness 

was  pressed 
To  secure  this  ambrosia  divine. 

'Tis  as  full  of  delight  as  the  grapes  were 

of  juice, 

Like  their  amethyst  bloom  is  its  hue ; 
It  has  drunk  from  the  sunlight  its  glory 

profuse, 
It  has  drank  from  the  roses  their  dew. 

And  yet  it  has  stol'n  all  the  gloom  of  the 

night, 

And  of  Dian's  sad  eyes,  o'er  the  hill 
As  they  beam  in  their  beauty  forlornly  yet 

bright, 
And  the  mists  in  the  valley  grow  chill. 

In  goblets  of  Juno's  white  lilies  so  sweet 
It  is  served  by  the  Gods  to  the  few 

Who    can    drink    the    top    sparkles    most 

bright  and  most  fleet, 
And  still  drink  till  the  dregs  are  in  view. 

The    ethereal   bliss   flowing  fast  through 

each  vein 

The  aromas  of  earth  yielded  up, 
But  the   fire   rising  fast  to  the  agonized 

brain 
By  Prometheus  was  mixed  in  the  cup 

Who   can    bear    the    sweet    anguish   of 

Heaven's  pure  fire? 
Who  will  drug  his  own  soul  with  de 
spair  ? — 

The  roses  whose  odors  wake  endless  desire. 
The  poppies  of  dreams,  who  can  bear  ? 

If  he  seeks  but  the  bliss  that  perfumetl 

the  top, 

If  he  seeks  but  its  sweetness  divine, 
Let  him  leave  it,  for  anguish  and  joy,  drop 

for  drop, 
Are  expressed  in  this  exquisite  wine. 

The  lips  that  have  thrilled  at  the  goble 

flow  fast 
With  a  madness  they  cannot  forbear : 


The  gods  what  they  will  of  the  future  and 

past 
Through  these  oracles  boldly  declare. 

The  chill  of  the  caves  where  it  cooled,  and 

the  glow 

Of  the  hills  where  it  grew,  mingle  up — 
Who  can  bear,  like  a  god,  both  its  rap 
tures  and  woe, 
He  shall  quaff  from  the  mystical  cup. 


THE  TWO  PICTURES. 

A  PAINTER  painted  a  picture  for  me, 

I  know  not  whether  with  color  or  words, 
Whether  on  canvas  or  air  it  might  be — 

Whether  I  saw  the  vision  or  heard, 
A  picture  it  was,  both  wide  and  high, 

Nine-tenths  of  the  world  had  a  place 

therein : 
The  light  was  all  in  the  rifted  sky — 

Beneath,  were  the  shadows  of  Want  and 
Sin. 

I  saw — ah !  what  did  I  not  see  there 
That  would  sadden  the  soul  to  feel  and 

know  ? 

All  bodily  anguish  and  heart  despair — 
And,  far    the    worst,   was    the    Spirit's 

woe: — 

The  baby  who  pined  for  milk  and  bread-  - 
The  mother  who  watched  it  with  tear 
less  eyes — 
The  father  who  plotted  first  crimes  in  his 

head — 

The  sister  who  fell  when  she  thought  to 
rise : 

The  laborer  eating  his  mouldy  crust 
In  many  a  strange  and  dreary  place, 

Now  by  the  roadside,  crouched  in  the  dust, 
Now  in  the  mine,  with  a  hueless  face : 

The  widow  dead  at  her  daily  work, 

With  none  to  see  but  her  wailing  child — 


1850-60.] 


METTA    Y.    VICTOR. 


523 


Beggars  that  in  odd  corners  lurk — 
And  slender  maidens  with  faces  wild : 

Young  men,   whose  dreams  of  greatness 

burst 
Their  garret   walls   with   their  narrow 

scope, 
Who  drowned  their  hunger  and  cold  and 

thirst 
In    the    brimming    wine   of  a    thrilling 

hope — 

All  had  a  place  in  this  picture  strange : — 
I   shuddered,  yet  could  not  choose  but 

look, 

While  ever  and  ever  the  picture  changed 
Like    turning   the   leaves  of  a  solemn 
book. 

Vast  shadows  over  the  landscape  crept, 

Blending  the  country  and  town  in  one ; 
Shapeless  dread  in  the  darkness  slept — 

Even  the  sky  was  dull  and  dun, 
Save  that  a  pencil  of  silver  light 

Slid  through  the  heavy  and  choking  air, 
Suddenly  touching  with  beauty  bright 

Some  pale  face  lifted  in  patient  prayer. 

The  darkness  drifted  like  wind  and  rain — 

I  seemed  to  listen  as  well  as  look, 
While  gusts  went  by  that  were  loud  writh 
pain, 

And  the  air  with  sobs  of  sorrow  shook 
To  a  strange,  continuous  undertone 

Of  tears  that  were  falling   many  and 

fast : — 
Ah,  the  wind  that  over  the  sea  doth  moan 

Had  never  so  wild  a  sound  as  this  last ! 

Ever  through  space  the  picture  grew, 
Bearing    me    on     with    its     thronging 

train  ; — 
This  tempest  of  human  sorrow  blew 

And  beat  on  the  world  its  drenching  rain. 
"What  painter  hath  done  this  work?"  I 

cried — 

"  Hath   painted  this    picture    wild  and 
dim?" 


"  Selfishness  wrought  it !"  a  voice  replied, 
"  For  a  prize  of  Gold  that  was  offered 
him." 

I  said  : — "  Oh  let  the  vision  pass  !" 

The  scene,  like  mist,  was  drifted  away ! 
A  light    wind   ran    through    the   rippling 
grass, 

A  golden  glow  on  the  world  did  lay ; 
The  dimpled  foot  of  the  happy  child 

On  moss  and  velvet  violets  trod ; 
With   the  joy  of  liowers  the  fields  were 
wild, 

And  perfumes  rose  from  the  grateful  sod. 

The  mother's  breast  was  full  and  fair, 

She  laughed  as  she  nursed  her  rosy  boy. 
And  shook  the  curls  of  her  careless  hair 

To  vex  him  with  a  gay  annoy : 
The  girl  her  simple  labor  sped, 

Mocking    with    songs    the    birds    and 

streams, — 
Then  rested  'neath  the  rose-vine  red, 

Her  cheeks  flushed  crimson  with  her 
dreams ; 

The  laborer  feasted  at  his  ease 

On  the  rich  fruits  his  toil  had  won  ; — 
The  peach  and  purple  grape  were  his — 

The  wheat  gold-tinted  by  the  sun: 
The  young  man  with  a  step  elate, 

Walked  proudly  on  th'  admiring  Earth, 
His  ideas  grown  to  actions  great — 

Success  commensurate  with  his  worth: 

The  splendor  of  the  boundless  sky 

Was  of  so  soft  and  fine  a  hue, 
No  daintiest  critic-taste  could  cry 

"There  was  too  much  of  gold  or  blue!" 
"  Who  painted  this,"  I  said,  "  must  be 

Of  Art,  the  master  and  the  lord  : " 
"  Love  wrought  it ! "  some  one  answered 
me, 

"  And  Beauty  was  his  sole  reward." 

"  But  when  shall  Love,  the  Artist,  stand 
Most  honored  in  the  world's  esteem, 


524 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


[1850-60. 


And  these  sweet  visions  from  his  hand 
Be  more  than  a  delightful  dream?" 

I  asked ;  and  still  the  voice  replies — 
"  When  Beauty  is  of  higher  worth 

Than  Gold,  in  men's  far-seeing  eyes, 
Then  Love  shall  paint  for  all  the  Earth/ 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE. 

PART   FIRST. 

IT  covers  the  ancient  castle 

Over  all  its  southern  wall; 
It  makes  for  itself  a  trestle 

Of  arch  and  battlement  tall ; 
It  waves  from  the  lofty  turret — 

It  swings  from  the  stately  tower — 
It  curtains  the  grim  old  castle 

As  fair  as  a  lady's  bower. 
At  the  time  of  the  midnight  wassail, 

At  the  time  of  mirth  and  wine, 
I  seek  no  other  pleasure 

Than  to  look  on  the  royal  vine — 
It  brims  my  soul  with  the  measure 

Of  a  happiness  divine. 

I  sit  without,  in  the  meadow ; 

The  trees  sing  low  and  sweet, 
The  tremulous  light  and  shadow 

Play  all  around  my  feet ; 
I  am  full  of  summer  fancies, 

I  breathe  the  breath  of  flowers, 
I  see  the  river  that  glances 

Beneath  the  castle-towers ; 
I  hear  the  wild-bee's  story, 

I  see  the  roses  twine — 
But  the  crown  of  all,  and  the  glory, 

Is  the  Honeysuckle-vine ! 

'Tis  the  type  and  ideal  of  summer, 
Tropical,  brilliant,  serene ! 

It  sheLers  the  light-winged  comer 
In  a  cool  and  wavy  screen ; 


It  is  full  of  vague,  soft  noises, 

Sweeter  than  sweetest  rhymes, 
Than  insects'  murmurous  voices, 

Finer  than  fairy-bell  chimes  ; 
It  is  the  queen  and  the  wonder 

Of  all  the  vines  that  grow, 
And  the  stately  elms  stand  under, 

Surprised  to  see  it  so. 
It  floats  in  the  yellow  sunshine — 

It  swims  in  the  rosy  light — 
It  dreams  in  the  mellow  moonshine 

Through  all  the  August  night. 
It  is  still  when  the  breeze  is  quiet, 

It  moves  not  leaf  nor  limb — 
And  oh,  what  a  wild,  sweet  riot 

It  holds  along  with  him ! 
They  dance  together  proudly 

A  gay,  ethereal  dance, 
And  the  happy  breeze  laughs  loudly 

As  its  garments  rustle  and  glance ! 

I  cannot  tell  the  fancies 

Which  crowd  my  brain  at  times, 
Nor  the  soft,  delicious  trances 

Beguiling  my  thought  to  rhymes  : — 
If  I  love  the  Honeysuckle, 

I  have  rivals  many  and  true ; 
The  bee  his  belt  doth  buckle 

And  sharpen  his  small-sword,  too. — 
He  will  sting  me  if  I  go  nearer — 

He  will  swear  he  has  kissed  her  lips — 
That  nectar  never  was  clearer 

Than  the  honey-dew  he  sips. 

The  humming-bird,  he  will  tell  me 

He  has  lain  in  her  breast  for  hours ; 
The  butterfly  seeks  to  repel  me 

With  his  wings  like  living  flowers. 
And  the  bright  sun  doth  adore  her — 

He  is  my  rival  brave ; 
He  bows  his  torch  before  her 

Like  some  gay-appareled  slave. 
He  lights  the  million  tapers 

Which  burn  upon  her  shrine, 
He  dries  the  morning  vapors 

Which  will  not  let  them  shine. 


1850-60.] 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


525 


Her  praise  to  heaven  she  renders 
With  golden  lamps  all  trimmed ; 

They  blaze  with  crimson  splendors, 
Bj  even  the  day  undimmed. 

These  are  not  tapers,  clearly 

That  burn  upon  the  vine — 
I  see  them  now  more  nearly 

As  beakers  full  of  wine ! 
They  are  goblets,  rich  and  golden, 

Ruby  and  garnet-rimmed, 
By  all  its  branches  holden 

And  with  royal  nectar  brimmed. 
Ah !  filled  with  juices  amber, 

Which  ripen  in  the  flower, 
For  which  bright  insects  clamber 

To  the  turret  and  the  tower. 
The  wild-bee  swims  in  blisses, 

The  small  bird  drinks  his  fill — 
They  vow  and  sigh — "Oh,  this  is 

The  draught  the  gods  distill! 
They  distill  it  out  of  heaven 

Into  these  goblets  fine — 
Let  us  drink  from  morn  till  even — 

Let  us  madden  us  with  wine, 

The  ambrosial,  the  divine!" 


PART   SECOND. 

It  covers  the  ancient  castle 

Over  all  its  southern  wall ; 
It  makes  for  itself  a  trestle 

Of  arch  and  battlement  tall ; 
It  is  rooted  deep  with  the  basement, 

It  rises  high  with  the  tower, 
It  curtains  a  certain  casement — 

And  there  is  my  lady's  bower ! 
With  a  graceful,  sweeping  motion 

There  parteth  the  leafy  screen — 
In  its  wavy  and  murmurous  ocean 

Like  a  pearl  is  my  lady  seen. 
No  wonder  the  vine  drops  amber 

Which  the  honey-bees  love  to  hive ! 
It  was  planted  to  shade  the  chamber 

Of  the  fairest  creature  alive 


Its  holy  and  blissful  duty — 

The  sweetest  that  ever  was  done — 
Is  to  shadow  her  virgin  beauty 

From  the  eye  of  the  amorous  sun. 

I  know  why  the  birds  crowd  thither 

To  sing  and  exult  all  day, 
While  the  roses  and  violets  wither, 

Unsung,  in  the  gardens,  away. 
I  know  why  the  bees  are  drunken — • 

In  pleasure  lapped  and  rolled, — 
Why    the   humming-birds'   breasts    are 
sunken 

So  deep  in  those  cups  of  gold ! 
It's  not  that  they  hold  their  wassail 

In  the  crimson,  nectarine  flower — 
They  see  the  pearl  of  the  castle, 

They  peer  in  her  maiden  bower ! 
Oh,  toss  your  flowers  in  the  sunlight ! 

Distill  your  honey-wine ! 
Wave,  wave  your  limbs  in  the  moon 
light, 

Glorious,  aspiring  vine ! 
Yours  is  the  coveted  pleasure 

Of  guarding  the  costly  shrine — 
But  the  bitter,  bitter  measure 

Of  idle  envy  is  mine. 

I  lie  in  the  oak-tree  shadow 

The  drowsy,  summer  day, 
In  the  rippling  grass  of  the  meadow 

I  idle  my  time  away. 
The  wine  and  feast  are  untasted, 

The  labor  never  is  done — 
With  heart  and  body  wasted, 

I  lie  in  the  shade  and  sun. 
Like  a  bird  in  its  leafy  covering, 

She  flits  about  her  room  ; 
I  see  her  fair  form  hovering 

Between  the  light  and  gloom : 
She  comes  to  the  window,  singing, 

She  plucks  a  peeping  flower — 
Through  all  my  being  is  ringing 

Her  song's  unconscious  power. 
She  shakes  the  saucy  butterfly 

From  off  the  fragrant  bough — 


526 


METTA    V.    VICTOR. 


[1850-60. 


And  I  am  conquered  utterly, 

By  the  mirth  which  dimples  now 
Her  rosy  mouth  and  cheek, 

And  brightens  over  her  brow. 
Oh,  would  I  dared  to  speak  ! 

Oh,  would  I  were  the  blossom 
That  waves  so  near  her  hair — 

She  might  pluck  me  for  her  bosom 
And  let  me  perish  there  ! 

I  am  mad  with  too  much  longing — 

And  wild  with  too  much  thought ! 
Bless'd  birds,  around  her  thronging, 

Sing  on,  1  heed  you  not ! 
Oh,  why  was  I  born  human, 

With  a  man's  spirit  and  mind, 
And  she,  a  peerless  woman, 

The  queen  of  all  her  kind  ? 
Those  woody  fibers  feel  not 

The  thrill  of  nerves  on  fire — 
Those  veins  of  nectar  reel  not 

With  love,  hope,  or  desire ! 
Yet  I  can  see  them  yearning 

To  hear  her  careless  speech, 
And  I  can  see  them  turning 

Her  loveliest  cheeks  to  reach ! 
Oh,  twine  thou  over  the  castle  !- 

In  wreaths  and  masses  twine ! 
I  am  only  a  stupid  vassal 

To  lie  in  the  grass  and  pine 

And  wish  my  fate  were  thine, 

Thou  happy,  royal  Vine  ! 


COMPOUND  INTEREST. 

BEN  ADAM  had  a  golden  coin  one  day, 
Which   he   put  out  at  interest  with  a 

Jew ; 
Year  after  year,  awaiting  him,  it  lay. 

Until  the  doubled  coin  two  pieces  grew 
And   these   two,  four — so  on,   till  people 

said 

"  How  rich  Ben  Adam  is  !  "  and  bowed 
the  servile  head. 


Ben  Selim  had  a  golden  coin  that  day, 
Which   to  a  stranger,  asking  alms,  he 

gave, 

Who  went,  rejoicing,  on  his  unknown  way. 
Ben  Selim  died,  too  poor  to  own  a  grave ; 
But  when  his  soul  reached  heaven,  angels, 

with  pride, 

Showed   him  the   wealth  to  which  his 
coin  had  multiplied. 


LOVE.* 

LOVE  is  not  taught,  Queen  Oene,  'tis  a  gift 
Mysterious  as  life,  and  more  divine ; 
The  congregated  glories  of  this  cave, 
With  all  its  jeweled  lamps  and  sparkling 

roof, 

Could  never  purchase  one  of  its  small  joys. 
Love,  in  exchange,  takes  nothing  but  itself; 
Power  cannot  claim  it — fear  cannot  com 
mand  : — 
It  is  a  tribute  Queens  cannot  exact. 
The  humblest  peasant  singing  in  her  hut 
Is  often  richer  than  the  proudest  Prince : 
It  is  the  gift  God  left  the  human  race 
To  keep  them  from  despair,  when  sin  and 

shame, 

Pain,  poverty  and  death,  and  madness  came 
Among  the  people.  When  a  youthful  pair 
Look  in  each  other's  eyes  and  say,  "  We 

love!" 
The  common  earth  grows  to  a  heavenly 

world. 

Singing  of  birds,  shining  of  summer  suns, 
Blooming  of  flowers  and  brightness  of  the 

moon 

Have  a  new  charm  to  their  elated  sense ; 
They  hear  the  music  of  the  Universe 
Walking,  with  light  feet,  to  the  harmony; 
Careless  of  care  and  disbelieving  pain, 
Grateful  for  life — and  all,  because  they 

love! 

*  Extract  from  "  Arctic  Queen." 


COATES  KINNEY. 


COATES  KINNEY  was  born  on  the  west  bank  of  Crooked  Lake — Keeuka  in  Indian — 
not  far  from  Penn  Yan,  in  Yates  county,  New  York,  November  twenty-fourth,  1826. 
Without  any  aid  from  his  parents,  their  gifted  son  has  obtained  a  liberal  education  by 
his  own  exertions.  Like  most  young  men  of  talent  in  the  West,  Coates  Kinney  has 
stood  ready  for  any  thing  that  might  turn  up.  Accordingly,  he  has  taught  both  in 
the  common  and  high  schools,  edited  papers,  and  practiced  law,  which  is  now  his  pro 
fession. 

In  the  spring  of  1840  he  came  to  Springboro,  Warren  county,  Ohio,  where  he  spent 
the  most  of  his  later  boyhood.  He  was  married  on  the  seventeenth  of  July,  1851, 
to  Hanna  Kelley  of  Waynesville,  of  the  same  county.  The  issue  of  their  marriage 
was  three  children,  two  of  which  are  deceased — the  other  is  a  motherless  infant, 
Mrs.  Kinney  having  died  on  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  April,  1860 — a  few  days  after 
its  birth — deeply  lamented  by  a  large  circle  of  devoted  friends. 

Coates  Kinney  is  now  thirty-three  years  of  age,  and  the  commencement  of  his  lit 
erary  career  dates  back  about  ten  years.  Having  been  compelled  to  make  his  bread 
in  uncongenial  pursuits,  his  genius  has  been  much  encumbered.  But  iron  necessity 
is  often  the  most  profitable  disciplinarian,  and  its  rugged  requisitions  have  made  the 
mightiest  of  earth's  heroes. 

His  poems  consist  of  "  Keeuka,  an  American  Legend,"  and  eighteen  minor  pieces, 
published  in  a  volume  of  one  hundred  and  sixty-one  pages,  in  1854,  and  a  number  of 
productions  since  given  to  the  serial  press.  In  estimating  his  merits  as  a  poet,  we 
shall  not  attempt  to  define  or  analyze  the  elements  of  poetry,  nor  undertake  a  theory 
which  will  especially  adapt  itself  to  his  case.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  poetry,  like  elo 
quence,  finds  a  response  in  the  human  soul, — an  echo  in  the  popular  heart.  This  is 
the  only  unmistakable  test  of  genuine  merit  in  this  field  of  literature.  It  will  not  do 
to  institute  a  comparison  between  the  modern  and  ancient  sons  of  song,  because  two 
thousand  years  of  change  and  progress,  in  human  nature,  have  produced  as  marked 
effects  in  poetic  genius  as  in  any  thing  else.  Another  Iliad  can  never  be  produced, 
because  the  Homeric  age  can  never  recur.  The  generations  now  are  developed  after 
a  model  so  different,  that  the  demand  for  epics  has  ceased,  and  therefore  no  supply 
can  be  expected.  The  case  is  well  stated  by  Neibuhr,  the  great  German  philosophi 
cal  historian,  in  the  following  language:  "To  rise  in  conciseness  and  vigor  of  style,  is 
the  highest  that  we  moderns  can  attain ;  for  we  cannot  write  from  our  whole  soul ; 
and  hence  we  cannot  expect  another  great  epic  poem.  The  quicker  beats  the  life 
pulse  of  the  world,  the  more  one  is  compelled  to  move  in  epicycles,  the  less  can  calm, 
mighty  repose  of  the  spirit  be  ours." 

How  far,  then,  does  Mr.  Kinney  meet  this  standard  of  excellence,  "conciseness  and 

(527) 


528  COATESKINNEY.  [1850-60. 

vigor  of  style?"  Without  instituting  an  invidious  comparison  with  other  poets,  we 
ask  the  reader  to  form  his  own  opinion  as  well  from  the  entire  productions  which  will 
be  given,  as  from  the  passages  of  "  Keeuka,  an  American  Legend,"  hereafter  quoted, 
which  are  selected  with  special  reference  to  this  quality. 

Of  this  leading  poem,  "  Keeuka,"  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  throughout  terse  and  strong, 
full  of  thought  and  genuine  poetry.  It  has  been  criticised  for  the  freedom  with  which 
the  author  makes  use  of  obsolete  words ;  but  every  one  who  is  moderately  read,  will 
understand  them  without  difficulty.  Antiquity  itself  is  poetical,  and  obsolete  words 
have  often  a  place  in  poetry  peculiarly  charming.  But  we  prefer  the  English  lan 
guage  as  it  is  now  spoken  ;  though  the  more  we  study  a  strong  production  like  "  Kee 
uka,"  the  more  our  prejudice  against  the  old  words  it  contains  gives  way. 

For  other  illustrations  of  the  quality  of  "conciseness  and  vigor,"  see  "On!  Right 
On  !  "  and  "  Mother  of  Glory."  The  latter  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  blank  verse 
in  the  English  language.  It  is  beautiful  as  a  poem,  and  noble  for  the  lesson  it  teaches. 
A  second  indication  of  poetic  excellence  is  the  judgment  of  the  high  court  of  human 
ity.  The  writer  whose  pieces  have  been  most  extensively  published  by  the  serial 
press,  has  the  most  favorable  response  in  this  behalf.  Of  Mr.  Kinney's  minor  pieces, 
"Rain  on  the  Roof,"  "Heroes  of  the  Pen,"  "  Emma  Stuart,"  "Minnehaha,"  and  "The 
End  of  the  Rainbow,"  are  known  to  almost  every  intelligent  reader  in  the  land. 

Of  the  poem,  "  Rain  on  the  Roof,"  it  may  be  said,  that  its  popularity  has  equaled 
that  of  any  other  poem  ever  written  in  the  West.  Though  artistically  elaborate,  yet 
to  those  who  have  the  innate  love  of  poetry,  it  seems  not  to  have  been  labored  at  all, 
but  to  have  come  of  itself,  like  a  shower  in  April,  or  to  have  grown  wild,  like  blos 
soms  in  the  woods.  It,  like  all  of  Mr.  Kinney's  productions,  will  bear  study,  and  im 
prove  on  acquaintance. 

A  third  rule  by  which  to  estimate  a  poet's  merits,  is  the  supply  of  brief  passages 
calculated  to  enforce  a  truth,  or  impress  a  noble  sentiment,  that  he  furnishes  to  the 
common  speech  of  the  people.  This  compliment  is  not  often  paid  during  the  poet's 
lifetime.  Perhaps  Pope's  "Essay  on  Man"  furnishes  more  single  lines,  couplets,  and 
quadruplets  conveying  solid  ideas  than  any  other  poem  ever  written,  making  due 
allowance  for  its  length.  Shakspeare  has  thrown  much  noble  speech  into  the  common 
mouth.  Mr.  Kinney  is  yet  young,  and  his  works  limited  ;  but  he  has  fair  prospect  for 
future  fame  in  this  respect. 

A  fourth  test  of  poetical  excellence  is  that  richness  of  fancy  and  imagination  which 
throws  over  the  realities  of  existence,  the  truths  and  emotions  of  our  being,  the  beau 
tiful  garniture  of  nature,  the  glorious  radiance  of  the  divine.  For  examples  of  this 
excellence  in  Mr.  Kinney's  verse,  let  the  reader  observe  "  Extracts  from  Keeuka," 
"The  Eden  of  Wishes,"  and  "  Mabelle." 

Previously  to  our  century,  poetry  has  employed  itself  chiefly  in  embellishing  the  fan 
cied  Eden  of  the  past,  and  in  portraying  the  "  human  nature  "  of  the  present.  But 
now  and  hereafter,  not  what  man  has  been  or  is,  but  what  he  will  be  in  the  unfolding 
of  his  perfections  must  chiefly  engage  the  lyre,  and  the  harmonies  of  nature  and  of 
progress  must  find  echo  in  the  melody  of  verse. 


1850-60.] 


C  GATES    KINNEY. 


529 


Does  our  poet  meet  this  fifth  test  of  poetic  excellence  ?  In  addition  to  citations 
already  made,  which  illustrate  this  point,  there  are  several  entire  pieces,  to  which  we 
may  call  the  reader's  attention. 

In  conclusion  let  it  be  remarked  that,  a  sixth  test  of  excellence  consists  in  the  depth 
of  thought  that  lies  at  the  basis  of  a  poet's  performances.  It  is  not  the  quantity  but 
the  quality  of  his  productions  on  which  merit  must  repose.  The  reader  will  notice 
that  his  appreciation  and  admiration  of  "  Keeuka,"  "Mother  of  Glory,"  and  many 
others  of  Mr.  Kinney's  productions,  will  depend  upon  the  study  he  gives  them. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "KEEUKA." 

WERE  mine  the  language  Sappho  wont  to 

sing, 
Whose  tones  were  brooks  of  honey  in  the 

soul; 

Could  I  the  full  Hellenic  thunders  fling 
Down   from  sublime  thought's   empyrean 

pole, 

With  Argive  auditors  to  hear  them  roll, 
Then  might  I  not  in  vain  invoke  the  Muse, 
Whose  mythic  spells  of  inspiration  stole 
Upon  old  bards,  and  filled  their  hearts,  as 

dews 
Mysterious  fill  the  buds,  with  glory's  folded 

hues. 

But  most  the  power  I  lack  ;    for   Saxon 

speech, 
Though   rough   as   ragged   ocean,   yet   is 

grand 

As  the  great  sound  of  billows  on  the  beach, 
That  winds  in  wrath  scourge  bellowing  to 

land. 
Yet,  though  the  Muse  ne  beck  me  with  her 

hand 

Up  where  Parnassian  rills  of  passion  flow, 
Where    fancy's    rainbows    brilliantly   are 

spanned 

Above  thought's  purest,  most  ethereal  snow, 
Nathless  I  meekly  sing  this   museless  lay! 

below. 

[CANTO  I. — Stanzas  i.,  ii. 


The  voices  with  the  distance,  tapered  down 
To  silence  ;  and  thence  till  the  setting  sun 
The  plumy  thrapple  of  the  mockbird  brown, 
S  woln  full  of  rich,  round  warble,  glibly 

spun 

Its  tangled  string  of  carols,  never  done  : 
The  tunable  love-twitter  round  the  nests. 
The  susurration  of  the  bees,  the  run 
Of  quick  brooks,  blent  their  sweet  sounds, 

till  the  west's 
Vanguard  of  hosting  stars  displayed  their 

brilliant  crests. 

[CANTO  I.— Stanza  xxi. 


Oh  War !  iconoclast  of  woman's  love  ! 
Thou  breaker  of  the  idols  of  her  heart! 
Thou  pomp  of  murder,  that  dost  flout  above 
All  penalty !  that  sit'st  enthroned  apart 
From    vulgar  crimes,    and   crowned    with 

glory  art ! 

While  man  may  so  heroically  die 
That    his    great    name  on    time's    historic 

chart 
Shall  loom  through  ages,  woman's  is  the 

sigh — 
The  tear,  which  fame's  cold  breath  may 

freeze,  but  cannot  dry. 

[CANTO  II.— Stanza  ii. 

The  woods'  wide  amphitheater  of  green ; 
The  sky's  high  overcanopy  of  blue ; 
The  lake,  arena  for  the  coming  scene 
Of  love's  boat  floating  with  its  dual  crew ; 


34 


530 


COATES    KINNEY. 


[1850-60. 


The  birds,  which,  as   they  sung,  and  sing 
ing  flew, 

And  flying  flashed  the  dew-drops,  one  might 
deem 

Nature's    winged   halleluiah's;    airs    that 
blew 

Through  leafy  lips  aroma  :  all  did  seem 
The  kingdom  come  of   passion's  para- 
disean  dream. 

[CANTO  II. — Stanza  xxi. 


Then  through  the  glory   of  that  mellow 

weather, 
We  traced  the  streams,  we  streamed  adown 

the  glyn, 

And  clomb  atop  the  piny  hills  together ; 
Nor  wist  we  aught  of  danger  we  were  in, 
For  neither  one  was  ware  of  any  sin : 
We  leaned  our  foreheads  o'er  the  selfsame 

book, 
Along   which   some   immortal   mind   had 

been, 
And,  mingling  with  our  mingled  spirits, 

took 
Its  power  in,  as  this  lake  bosoms  yonder 

brook. 

[CANTO  III.— Stanza  xxiv. 

Years  passed  like  dreams — for  we  were  not 

a  part 
Of    the    world's    wakeful    stir — divinest 

dreams, 

Of  poetry,  philosophy,  and  art, 
And  liberty,  and  glory,  and  all  themes 
Of   thought;  the  stars,  those  everlasting 

gleams 

Of  God  in  heaven  ;  life,  this  endless  chase 
Of  childhood  after  rainbows  ;  death,  which 

seems 

The  lifting  of  the  vail  from  Mystery's  face ; 
And  immortality  in  some  more  happy  place. 

[CANTO  IV.— Stanza  xxi 

....  His   hair   bright   brown,  his   eyes 

were  lakelike  blue, 
And  looked  as  though  they  held  all  here 

tofore 


And  all  hereafter  in  their  raptured  view, 
And  all  high  knowledge  and  all  holy  pas 
sion  knew. 

.  .  His    soul    seemed    brooding    live 

thoughts  beaked  with  fire, 
Hatching  them  into  words.     Upon  his  face 
There  glowed  the  light  of  truth's  divine 

desire. 

.  .  .  .  Ne'er  harpist  harping  with  his  gold 
en  harp 

The  Orphic  miracles  of  raging  song, 
Could  half  sing  love. 

.  ...  In  noisy  flocks  while  other  children 

played, 
Nurse  Nature  spread  her  lap  and  tended 

me, 

And  so  before  me  her  delightments  laid 
That  I  was  charmed  to  sit  upon  her  knee, 
And  feel  my   heart  with  her  great  heart 


.  .  .  .  And  at  such  times  the  stars  had 

earnest  looks 
Of  sympathy,  as  though  each  held  a  tear ; 
And  in  the  silvery  babble  of  the  brooks 
Almost  a  human  sobbing  we  could  hear. 

.  ...  So  passed  we  all  the  lovely  summer 

eves, 

Our  souls  commingling  like  two  waterways 
Within  some  pleasant  valley  full  of  leaves. 

....  Men  on  whose  fronts  King  Toil  had 

full  embrowned 

The  stamp  of  true  nobility,  narrated 
Never  in  heraldry,  but  elevated 
Above  the  majesties  of  all  the  earth. 

.  .  .  .  O  Liberty !  thy  symbol  is  the  sea. 
The  great  sea  is  thy  symbol,  and  the  waves 
Which  roll  before  the  east  wind,  emblem 

thee: 
Thou  hast  a  motion  like  them. 


1850-60.]                                              COATES    KINNEY.                                                     531 

RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF. 

There  is  naught  in  Art's  bravuras, 
That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 

WHEN  the  humid  shadows  hover 

In  the  spirit's  pure,  deep  fountains, 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres, 

Whence  the  holy  passions  well, 

And  the  melancholy  darkness 

As  that  melody  of  Nature, 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain 

What  a  joy  to  press  the  pillow 

Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

Of  a  cottage-chamber  bed, 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead  ! 

-^- 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 

Has  an  echo  in  the  heart  ; 

THE  HEROES  OF  THE  PEN.* 

And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies 
Into  busy  being  start, 
And  a  thousand  recollections 

IN  the  old  time  gone,  ere  came  the  dawn 
To  the  ages  dark  and  dim, 

Weave  their  bright  hues  into  woof, 

Who   wielded   the   sword   with   mightiest 

As  I  listen  to  the  patter 

brawn, 

Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

The  world  bowed  down  to  him  ; 

The  hand  most  red  with  the  slaughtered 

Now  in  fancy  comes  my  mother, 

dead, 

As  she  used  to,  years  agone, 

Most  potent  waved  command, 

To  survey  her  darling  dreamers, 

And  Mars  from  the  sky  of  glory  shed 

Ere  she  left  them  till  the  dawn  ; 

His  light  like  a  blazing  brand: 

O!  I  see  her  bending  o'er  me, 

3ut  fiery  Mars  among  the  stars 

As  I  list  to  this  refrain 

Grew  pale  and  paler  when, 

Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

At  the  morn,  came  Venus  ushering  in 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister, 

STot  with  sword  and  flame   these  heroes 

With  her  wings  and  waving  hair, 
And  her  bright-eyed  cherub  brother  — 
A  serene,  angelic  pair  !  — 

came 
To  ravage  and  to  slay, 
Sut    the    savage    soul    with    thought  to 

Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow, 
With  their  praise  or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur 

tame, 
And  with  love  and  reason  sway  ; 
Nor  good  steel  wrought  that  battles  fought, 

Of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

In  the  centuries  of  yore, 

Was    ever   so   bright   as    they   burnished 

And  another  comes  to  thrill  me 

thought, 

With  her  eye's  delicious  blue  ; 

To  cut  into  error's  core  ; 

And  forget  I,  gazing  on  her, 
That  her  heart  was  all  untrue  : 

And  in  the  fight  for  truth  and  right, 
Not  a  hundred  thousand  men 

I  remember  but  to  love  her 

Of  the  heroes  old  were  match  for  one 

With  a  rapture  kin  to  pain, 

Of  the  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 

And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate 

To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

*  Written  for,  and  read  to,  the  Ohio  Editorial  Conven- 
on  held  at  Cincinnati  January  10th,  1854. 

COATBS    KINNEY. 


For  the  weapon  they  wield,  nor  armor  nor 
shield 

Endures  for  a  single  dint, 
Nor  glave  withstands,  nor  bayonet  steeled, 

Nor  powder,  and  ball,  and  flint: 
It    touches    the    thing    called    slave     or 
king, 

And  the  man  doth  reappear, 
As  did  from  the  toad  the  seraph  spring 

At  the  touch  of  Ithuriel's  spear  ; 
And  wherever  down  it  strikes  a  crown, 

Says  sovereign  to  serf,  Amen  !  — 
Amen  !  and  hurra,  the  people  cry, 

For  the  Heroes  of  the  Pen ! 

Upon  old  tomes,  those  catacombs 

Of  the  dead  and  buried  time, 
They  lay  the  base  of  glory's  domes, 

And  build  with  truth  sublime ; 
And     from    their    height     directing    the 
fight 

Of  the  right  agtiinst  the  wrong, 
They  fill  the  world  with  the  lettered  might 

Of  eloquence  and  song. 
Nor  buried  they  lie  with  those  who  die 

At  threescore  years  and  ten, 
But    atop   the   piles    they  have   builded 
sleep 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 

Hurra  for  the  true !  of  old  or  new, 

Who  heroes  lived  or  fell — 
Thermopylae's  immortal  few  ! 

Hurra  for  the  Switzer  Tell ! 
Upvoice  to  sky  the  brave  Gracchi ! 

Hurra  for  the  Pole  and  the  Hun ! 
For  the  men  who  made  the  great  July ! 

Hurra  for  Washington ! 
Yet  old  time  past  would  triumph  at  last — 

But  hurra,  and  hurra  again, 
For  the  heroes  who  triumph  over  time ! 

The  Heroes  of  the  Pen. 


MOTHER  OF  GLORY. 

VE  weary  waiting  for  these  glimmerings, 
hat  struggle  singly  through  the  difficult 

rifts 

f  aspiration,  winking  us  with  mock : 
>h,  for  some  breezy  circumstance,  at  once 
'o    take    the    cloud   off  from   our    starry 

thoughts, 

nd  let  their  glory  constellate  the  dark  ! 
Uas !  the  mind's  pure  gold  lies  particled 
)eep  in  the  silt  of  muddy  generations ; 
nd  he  moils  long,  who  gathers  ore  enough 
o  coin  himself  the  costly  price  of  fame. 
Under  this  deluging  degeneracy, 
he   spirit's  brightest  outgrowths  are    of 

pain, 

A.S  precious  pearls  are  of  disease  in  shells 
At  bottom  of  the  main.  The  miner  delves, 
The  diver  dives :  rich  ore  and  sparkling 

pearls 

Put  such  a  splendor  on  their  ugly  toil, 
As  dazzles  out  the  memory  of  their  past, 
And  thenceforth  blazons  them  as  diademed 
?rom  on  high. 

Thus  is  won  renown.     The  slow, 
Still  process  of  the  rain,  distilling  down 
The  great  sweat  of  the  sea,  is  never  seen 
In  the  consummate  spectacle  flashed  forth 
A   seven-hued   arch   upon   the    cloud   of 

heaven : 

So  never  sees  the  world  those  energies, 
Strong  effort  and  long  patience,  which  have 

stirred 

In  low  obscurity,  and  slowly  heaved 
Its  darkness  up,  till  sudden  glory  springs 
Forth  from  it,  arching  like  a  perfect  rain 
bow. 

Think   ye   the   lofty  foreheads   of    the 

world, 
That  beam   like   full   moons  through  the 

night  of  time, 

Holding  their  calm,  big  splendor  steadily 
Forever  at  the  top  of  history — 


1850-60.] 


COATES    KINNEY. 


533 


Think  ye  they  rushed  up  with  a  sudden 
ness 

Of  rockets  sportively  shot  into  heaven, 
And  flared  to  their  immortal  places  there  ? 

The  vulgar  years  through  which  ambi 
tion  gropes, 

Reaching  arid  feeling  for  his  destiny, 
Are  only  years  of  chaos,  tallied  not 
On  the  eternal  rocks,  but  covered  deep 
Below  the  stratified  history  of  a  world. 

Celebrity  by  some  great  accident, 
Some  single  opportunity,  is  like 
Aladdin's  palace  in  the  wizard  tale, 
Vanished   when   envy   steals    the    charm 

away. 

But  Thought  up-pyramids  itself  to  fame 
By  husbandry  of  opportunities, 
Grade  after  grade  constructing  to  that  height, 
Which,  seen  above  the  far  horizon,  seems 
To  peak  among  the  stars.     Go  mummify 
Thy  name  within  that  architectural  pile 
Which  others'  intellect  has  builded ;  none — 
For  all  the  hieroglyphs  of  glory — none 
Save  but  the  builder's  name,  shall  sound 

along 

The  everlasting  ages.     Heart  and  brain 
Of  thine  must  resolutely  yoke  themselves 
To  slow-paced  years  of  toil,  else  all  the 

trumps 

Of  hero-heraldry  that  ever  twanged, 
Gathered    in   one    mad  blare    above    the 

graves, 

Shall  not  avail  to  resurrect  thy  name 
To  the  salvation  of  remembrance  then 
When  once  the  letters  of  it  have  slunk 

back 

Into  the  alphabet  from  off  thy  tomb. 
Aye,  thou  must  think,  think  !    Marble  frets 

and  crumbles 

Back  into  undistinguishable  dust 
At  last,  and  epitaphs  grooved  into  brass, 
Yield  piecemeal  to  the  hungry  elements ; 
But  truths  that  drop  plumb  to  the  depths  of 

time, 


Anchor    the   name   forever: — thou    must 

think 
Such  truths,  and  speak,  or  write,  or  act 

them  forth — 

Thyself  must  do  this — or  the  centuries 
Shall  take  thee,  as  the  maelstrom  gulps  a 

wreck, 
To  the  dread  bottom  of  oblivion. 

Think ! 

A    bibulous    memory    sponging    up    the 
thoughts 

Of  dead  men,  is  not  thought ;  it  holds  no 

sway 

Where  genius  is  :  not  freighted  argosies, 
But  thunder-throated  guns  of  battle-ships 
Command  the  high  seas.     Destiny  is  not 
About  thee,  but  within;  thyself  must  make 
Thyself:  the  agonizing  throes  of  Thought, 
These  bring  forth  glory,  bring  forth  destiny. 


THE  EDEN  OF  WISHES. 

IT  is  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain, 

Whose  high  brow  is  bared  before  God, 

There  gushes  a  crystalline  fountain, 
And  makes  a  bright  brook  in  the  sod. 

And  the  sod  spreads  away  o'er  a  valley 
That  opens  where  blue  waters  be; 

And  the  brook  with  meandering  dally 
Goes  babbling  along  to  the  sea. 

There  snowy  sails  pass,  like  the  lazy 
White  clouds  of  a  summery  sky — 

Appear  and  evanish  where  hazy 
Infinity  fences  the  eye. 

Here  falls  over  Pan's  mossy  pillows 
The  green  gloom  of  tropical  groves, 

And  Poesy  hears  the  low  billows 
In  airs  that  come  up  from  the  coves. 

And  here,  while  the  sands  of  light  sunny 
Sift  down  through  the  leaves  from  above, 


534 


COATES    KINNEY. 


[1850-60. 


The  wild  bee  gads  hunting  for  honey, 
With  wings  wove  of  whispers  of  love. 

Here  the  ripples  make  music  more  mellow, 
More  sweet  than  the  stops  of  a  flute  ; 

Here  the  dark  sky  of  leaves  is  starred  yel 
low 
With  thick  constellations  of  fruit. 

This  valley  so  pleasantly  lonely, 

Where  through  doth  the  waterbrook  run, 

Holds  one  little  cottage,  one  only, 
And  one  little  maid,  only  one. 

Her  blue  eyes  are  clear  pools  of  passion, 
Her  lips  have  the  tremor  of  leaves, 

And  the  speech  that  her  lovely  thoughts 

fashion, 
Is  sweeter  than  poetry  weaves. 

Flirtation,  gross,  flippant,  and  cruel, 
Ne'er  handled  the  hues  on  the  wings 

Of  her  love ;  in  her  heart  is  a  jewel 
No  cunning  of  flattery  strings. 

For  dwells  all  alone  here  the  maiden, 
And  waits  for  a  true  lover's  kiss : 

Who  would  sigh  for  angelical  Aiden, 
With  her  in  an  Eden  like  this  ? 

'Tis  the  Eden  of  Wishes,  unreal, 
This  valley  by  sea  bordered  blue, 

And  the  maiden  is  all  an  ideal — 
I  was  but  romancing  to  you. 


EMMA  STUART. 

OH  !  the  voices  of  the  crickets, 

Chirping  sad  along  the  lea, 
Are  the  very  tears  of  music 

Unto  melancholy  me  ; 
And  the  katydid's  responses 

Up  among  the  locust  leaves, 
Make  my  spirit  very  lonesome 

On  these  pensive  autumn  eves. 


For  they  mind  me,  Emma  Stuart, 

Of  the  by-gone,  blessed  times, 
When  our  heart-beats  paired  together 

Like  sweet  syllables  in  rhymes ; 
Ere  the  faith  of  love  was  broken, 

And  our  locked  hands  fell  apart, 
And  the  vanity  of  promise 

Left  a  void  in  either  heart. 

Art  thou  happy,  Emma  Stuart? 

I  again  may  happy  be 
Nevermore  :  the  autumn  insects, 

In  the  grass,  and  on  the  tree, 
Crying  as  for  very  sorrow 

At  the  coming  of  the  frost, 
Are  to  me  love's  fallen  angels, 

Wailing  for  their  heaven  lost. 

Often,  often,  Emma  Stuart, 

On  such  solemn  nights  as  this, 
Have  we  sat  and  mused  together 

Of  the  perfectness  of  bliss — 
Of  the  hope  that  lit  the  darkness 

Of  the  future  with  its  ray, 
Which  was  like  a  star  in  heaven, 

Beautiful,  but  far  away  ! 

By  the  gateway,  where  the  locust 

Of  the  moonlight  made  eclipse, 
And  the  river  ripple  sounded 

Like  the  murmur  of  sweet  lips, 
There  a  little  maiden  waited, 

Telling  all  the  moments  o'er — 
Emma  Stuart !  Emma  Stuart ! 

Waits  the  maiden  there  no  more  ? 

No  !  ah  no !  Along  the  pathway 

Grows  the  high,  untrampled  grass, 
Where  the  cricket  stops  to  listen, 

For  thy  wonted  feet  to  pass  ; 
But  thy  footsteps,  Emma  Stuart, 

Press  no  more  the  doorway  stone, 
Trip  no  more  along  the  pathway — 

And  the  cricket  sings  alone. 

It  is  very  mournful  mu.sing, 
On  such  solemn  nights  as  this, 


1850-60.] 


COATES    KINNEY. 


How  evanished  all  the  promise 
Of  the  perfectness  of  bliss : 

Love's  green  grave  between  us,  Emma, 
Keeps  us  parted  aye  and  aye — 

Even  not  to  know  each  other 
In  the  Love-home  far  away  ! 


MINNEHAHA. 

ERE  the  Muses  transatlantic, 

Pale  of  face,  and  blue  of  eye, 
Found  the  wilderness  romantic 

'Neath  the  occidental  sky, 
Think  not  then  was  here  no  worship 

Of  the  beautiful  and  grand  ; 
Think  not  Nature  had  no  wooers 

In  the  wild  Hesperian  land. 

Poesy,  agrestic  maiden, 

Wild-eyed,  black-haired,  haunted  here, 
Singing  of  the  Indian  Aiden, 

Southwest  of  this  mortal  sphere  ; 
Singing  of  the  good  Great  Spirit, 

Who  is  in  and  over  all ; 
Singing  sweetly  every  river, 

Mountain,  wood,  and  waterfall. 

And  this  dark  Parnassian  maiden, 

Sang  sublimely  war's  wild  art ; 
Sang  of  love  and  lips  love-laden 

With  the  honey  of  the  heart. 
But  the  war-song's  frantic  music, 

And  the  death-song's  roundelay, 
And  the  love-song's  rude  cantata, 

Westward,  westward  die  away. 

These  will  with  the  red  tribes  perish ; 

For  their  language  leaves  nor  scroll 
Nor  tradition  writ,  to  cherish 

Such  immortalness  of  soul. 
So,  the  names  that  they  have  given 

To  the  charms  of  Nature  here — 
Stream,  cascade,  lake,  hill,  and  valley — 

Let  us  fervently  revere. 


For,  though  civil  life  effaces 

All  else  they  have  gloried  in, 
Yet  this  poetry  of  places, 

Shall  remind  us  they  have  been : 
Therefore,  white  man,  pioneering 

Far  and  farther  in  the  West, 
Let  the  Indian  names  be  sacred, 

Though  thou  ravage  all  the  rest. 

Call  not  cataracted  rapid 

That  has  leaped  its  way  and  riven, 
By  his  own  name,  curt  and  vapid, 

That  some  Saxon  boor  has  given ! 
But  let  nature  keep  her  titles ! 

Let  her  name  the  quick  cascade 
Minnehaha — Laugh  ing- Water — 

In  the  language  she  has  made ! 

Minnehaha !  how  it  gushes 

Like  a  flow  of  laughter  out ! 
Minnehaha !  how  it  rushes 

Downward  with  a  gleeful  shout ! 
Minnehaha  !  to  the  echoes — 

Minnehaha!  back  the  same — 
Minnehaha!  Minnehaha! 

Live  forever  that  sweet  name ! 


ON!  RIGHT  ON! 

ON  !  right  on  !     Art  thou  immortal, 
Born  to  act,  and  deeds  to  do, 

And  yet  sittest  in  the  portal 

Of  thy  destiny  ?     Pass  through ! 

On !  right  on  !  strike — stave  to  slivers 
Error's  gates  that  bar  thy  way  ; 

Enter,  and  live  with  the  livers ! 
Live  and  act,  while  yet  'tis  day. 

On  !  right  on  !  for  night  is  coming — 
Night  of  life,  which  comes  to  all — 

When  Death's  fingers,  chill  and  numbing, 
Seal  the  lids  and  spread  the  pall. 


536 


COATES    KINNEY. 


[1850-60. 


On  !  right  on  !     Life  is  a  battle, 
Where  who  wins  must  be  a  brave ; 

For  ere  long  the  clods  shall  rattle 
On  the  coffin  in  the  grave. 

On  !  right  on !     His  name  is  Legion, 

That  has  resolution's  arm  ; 
Victor  he  o'er  many  a  region, 

Ere  dull  plodders  take  alarm. 

On  !  right  on !  with  high  ambition, 
Make  that  viper,  Slander,  feel 

Writhings  of  submiss  contrition, 
With  his  head  beneath  thy  heel. 

On  !  right  on  !     Think  not  life  ending 
When  thou  liest  down  to  die  : 

On  !  right  on  !  brave  soul,  ascending, 
Soar  forever  in  the  sky ! 


ON  MARRIAGE. 

A  BROOK  and  a  river — 
A  crystalline  brook 
From  a  sibylline  nook, 
And  a  silvery  river — 
Flow  into  a  lake, 
In  which  beautiful  lake 

Are  pictured  all  bright  things  above ; 
The  brook  is  a  life, 
And  the  river  a  life ; 

And  the  lake  is  the  Lake  of  Love. 

And  out  of  its  bosom 
A  stream  fills  and  flows, 
And  oceanward  goes — 
From  out  the  lake's  bosom 
One  stream  to  the  sea ; 
And  this  infinite  sea, 

That  ever  mysteriously  rolls 

Upon  time's  either  shore, 
It  is  named  Evermore  ; 

And  the  stream  is  one  life  of  two  souls. 


So  the  brook  and  the  river 

Unitedly  run ; 
Two  lives  from  the  Giver, 

Flow  back  only  one. 
The  two  halves  of  being, 

The  man  and  the  woman, 
In  wedlock  agreeing, 

Complete  the  life  human. 

When  two  lives  like  these  from  single 

Into  double  being  flow — 
When  two  souls  like  these  commingle, 

In  their  hearts  this  truth  shall  grow 
Love  is  not  the  little  lusters 

Starred  around  the  passion-moon ; 
Love  o'er  all  life's  heaven  clusters, 

From  horizon  up  to  noon. 


DISCONTENT. 

A  LITTLE  bird  with  a  scarlet  coat 
Came  fluting  to  me  a  silver  note, 
As  though  it  said  thro'  its  mellow  throat, 
Isle-of- Wihows !  Isle-of- Willows ! 

It  perched  alone  on  a  lonely  tree, 
And  seemed  that  it  longed  and  longed  to  be 
In  the  isle  it  sung  of  thus  to  me — 
Isle-of- Willows  !  Isle-of- Willows ! 

It  thought,  perhaps,  of  a  little  isle, 
Where  blue  the  waters  and  heavens  smile, 
And  green  the  willows  wave  all  the  while, 
Isle-of- Willows  !  Isle-of- Willows ! 

Is  this  thy  memory  or  thy  hope — 
Thy  being's  backward  or  forward  scope, 
Whereto  thy  little  heart-longings  grope  ? 
Isle-of- Willows!  Isle-of- Willows  ! 

It  said  me  never  another  word, 
But  flitted  away  this  little  bird; 
Yet  aye  in  my  soul  its  voice  is  heard — 
Isle-of-Willows !  Isle-of-Willows  ! 


JOHN   GIBSON   DUNN. 


JOHN  GIBSON  DUNN  was  born  in  the  town  of  Lawrenceburgh,  Indiana,  about  the 
year  1826,  and  he  died,  in  New  Orleans,  in  the  spring  of  1858.  He  was  the  oldest 
son  of  George  H.  Dunn,  who  for  many  years  occupied  high  official  station  in  the  State 
of  Indiana. 

John  G.  Dunn  was  educated  at  College  Hill,  near  Cincinnati,  and  at  South  Han 
over,  Indiana.  He  studied  medicine,  and  received  the  degree  of  M.D.,  at  Cin 
cinnati.  Soon  after  completing  his  course  of  study,  he  accepted  the  appointment  of 
assistant  surgeon  to  the  Third  Regiment  of  Indiana  Volunteers,  in  the  Mexican  war. 
He  discharged  his  duties  in  that  capacity  with  distinguished  ability,  and,  at  the  close 
of  the  war,  was  appointed  assistant  surgeon  in  the  regular  service  of  the  United 
States  army.  This  appointment  he  declined,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  medicine 
in  his  native  town. 

Besides  being  a  physician  of  rare  attainments  for  one  so  young,  Mr.  Dunn  was  an 
artist  as  well  as  a  poet.  In  his  professional  labors,  and  in  his  devotion  to  the  kindred 
arts  of  poetry  and  painting,  he  displayed  eminent  abilities  for,  and  high  appreciation 
of,  science  and  art.  If  he  had  been  content  with  any  one  line  of  life — had  his  genius 
been  steadily  required  to  flow  in  one  channel,  or  confined  to  a  single  aim,  he  would 
have  accomplished  memorable  works ;  but,  like  many  men  of  uncommon  natural  gifts, 
he  could  not  permanently  direct  his  energies  in  any  particular  pursuit.  He  spent 
several  years  in  New  Orleans,  and,  while  there,  was  a  contributor  to  the  Delta.  He 
wrote  his  earliest  poems  for  the  Register  and  the  Independent  Press — papers  published 
in  his  native  town.  His  poems  have  never  been  collected.  He  was  careless  of  their 
fate.  The  accompanying  pieces  were  found  with  difficulty :  others  of  equal  or  supe 
rior  merit  were  produced  by  him. 


The  Earth  hath  gaped  again !    Her  clammy 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  INEBRIATE.*  jawg 


WHOSE   heart   is   broken   now?     None? 
None  ! 


Yet  Death  hath  clutched  into  the  throng-  feast  is  there  ! 


world 


*  This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  death,  from  inebriety, 
of  an  abandoned  wretch,  known  in  Lawrenceburgh,  In 
diana,  as  French  John. 


Have  closed  in  darkness  on  another  form. 
The    grave-worm    whets  his  teeth !     His 


-But      '  wllose  neart>  whose  heart  is  broken 


And  snatched  away  a  soul. 

No  eye  hath  rained  its  sorrows  o'er  that 

mound  ; 
No  loving  hand  hath  clipped  a  single  lock. 


(  537  ) 


538 


JOHN    G.   DUNN. 


[1850-60. 


The  tomb  is  stoneless !     Not  a  sob  of  woe 
Or  prayer  hies  up  for  him  who  rots  be 
neath. 
The    night-winds    sweeping   through    the 

frozen  grass 

Flap  o'er  the  dead  their  chilly,  spirit  wings, 
In  horror  wailing  out  his  only  dirge. 
Oh,  not  so  cold  the  grassless,  frozen  earth 
As  this  world's  cold  and  selfish  heart  to 

thee  ; 

Not  half  so  dead  thy  stiff  and  bloated  limbs 
As  is  thy  memory.     No  weeds  for  thee ! 
Poor,  murdered,  lost ! 

The  winter  storm  will  flatten  down  thy 

grave ; 
Grass-coaxing  spring  will  come,  and  winds 

of  June, 
With  tender  blades  and  laughing  blooms 

will  piny 

Upon  the  low,  undesignated  spot. 
The  heedless  passer's  foot  will  press  the 

turf 

Unconscious,  aye,  unmindful  of  thy  dust ; 
And  many  a  pomp  of  loud  and  splendid 

woe 

Will  pass  thy  tomb,  and  in  a  bed  like  thine 
Lay  many  a  corse  for  rottenness  and  worms ! 
Yet,  oh,  forgotten  one,  thou  hadst  a  soul ! 
But  men  think  not  of  this.     Shame,  curses, 

scorn 

Abuse,  reproach  and  hate — the  only  troop 
That  formed  thy  funeral  march  !    No  tears 

for  thee ! 

Poor,  murdered,  lost ! 

He  had  a  soul !     A  soul  ?     Friends,  think 

of  this ! 

Have  ye  not  looked  upon  that  bloated  face? 
Have  ye  not  seen  that  red  and  dripping 

eye? 
Beheld  ye  not  that  tattered,  filthy  coat  ? 


On  every  rotten  breath ;    hell's  poisoned 

juice 
Went  slobbering  down  in  many  a  nauseous 

stream, 

Or  gurgled  through  his  veins — drove  Rea 
son  out 
With  all  her  troop  of  pure  and  virtuous 

thoughts — 

Enkindled  passion — fired  the  tottering  soul 
With  fierce  desires  and  base  imaginings — 
Fed  Appetite  till  he  a  giant  grew — 
A  conquering  tyrant — fierce — insatiate, 
WTho  seized  the  throne  of  Reason,  and  laid 

waste 

The  fairy  realms  of  thought — 
Drove  friends  away  and  brought  the  world's 

abuse — 

Tore  from  his  back  the  garb  of  decency — 
Whirled    his    frail   brain,  and  tomb-ward 

pushed  him  on, 

With  staggering  gait  and  horrid  blasphemy! 
He  tottered  through  the  streets  a  sight  of 

shame ! 
Hell    tripped   him   up!      Heard   not   the 

drunkard's  splash  ? 
The   gutter   claimed    its   own — its   filthy 

stream 
Poured  in  his  strangling  nostrils,  and  his 

lips 
Through  waters  filthy,  blubbered  filthier 

oaths, 
No  lower  now  ! — thus  bedded  with  the 

brute, 

The  grave  with  all  its  rottenness  is  clean ! 
Poor,  murdered,  lost ! 

What  horrid  shrieking  thrills  the  midnight 

wind? 
What  writhing  form  is  yon,  in  cheerless 

room, 
Who  rends  his  couch  of  straw  ?  Fierce 

agony — 


Have  ye  not  heard  the  loud    and  horrid  Convulsions    horrid    rack    his    trembling 

curse  limbs ! 

Of  crazy  drunkenness  ?     Hell's  language  His  strength,  a  giant's !     Numbers  scarce 

rose  can  stay 


1850-60.] 


JOHN    G.    DUNN. 


539 


His   strong,   flesh-rending  fingers  !     How 

he  starts  ! 
His  sinews  crack !     His  eyes  start  fiercely 

out! 

Now  anger  rages  like  the  fires  of  hell ! 
Now  frightful  visions  clutch  his  heart,  and 

loud 

He  shrieks  for  help  !     Grim  fiends   sur 
round  his  couch ; 

They  gain  in  numbers  and  in  horrid  hue ; 
The  walls  are  full  of  horrid  images ; 
His  bed  glides  'neath  him — every  straw  a 

snake  ; 
Foul  insects  creep  and  loathsome  reptiles 

cling 
Around  his   shrinking  limbs !      Water  is 

offered — 
Nay;  'tis  flush  with  snakes,  and  newts,  and 

scorpions  green, 

Turmoiling  in  a  war  of  nauseous  slime  ! 
The  walls  are  falling — he  struggles  to  be 

free  ; 
The  dreadful  forms  increase,  and  closer 

still, 

With  horrid  gibbering  and  gnashing  teeth ! 
The    ceiling    crumbles,   and    his    fearful 

shrieks 
Thrill  horror  to  the  soul ; — he  bursts  the 

power 

Of  strong  attendance  ! — Look  !    the   win 
dow's  near ! 
Clutch  him,  strong  hands  !     See  how  his 

veined  neck 

Swells  up  with  stagnant  blood ;  his  lips 
Puff  out ;  he  raves  around  the  room 
From  fearful  hidden  foes !     Ha  !  see  that 

change — 
His  face  grows  livid — now  'tis  black!     He 

leaps 
High    in   the  air,  and,  shrieking   wildly, 

falls, 
With  uprolled,  spasmed  eyes,  and  knotted 

limbs, 

By  fierce  convulsions  twisted  out  of  form ! 
His  lips  spout  foam !     How  hollow  is  his 

groan ! 


One  tremor  more — 'tis  past !     A  soul  hath 

flown ! 
Hell's  minions  triumph  o'er  that  house  of 

clay, 

Built  up  so  wondrously  by  Word  of  God ; 
And  hell  herself  hath  triumphed  o'er  the 

soul! 
Soul — body — all — hell's  minions  here  on 

earth, 
For  lucre's  hellish   bribe,  have  murdered 

thee, 

Forgotten,  lost ! 

Awake,  ye  slumbering  hearts  !  raise  voice 

and  arm ! 
Arouse  yon  man  who   folds   around   his 

form 

The  robe  of  sanctity,  and  sleeps  in  church. 
Oh,  look  not  idly  on  !     I  saw  his  son 
Look  into  hell  last  night !     Wake  !  erring 

soul, 
Who  on  the  streets  did  stand,  with  folded 

arms, 
And  preach  of  moral  suasion !    Rouse  thee 

up  ! 

Hell's  ear  is  open,  but  she  hath  no  heart ! 
Why  prate  to  her  ?     Why  wheedle  with 

her  brood  ? 
I  saw  thy  son  go  staggering  through  the 

street ! 
Hast   thou   persuaded  him,  or  those  who 

poisoned  him  ? 
Blind    not    thyself,    and    oh,    let   others 

see! 
Hold,   demagogue !      What  doctrine  dost 

thou  preach  ? 
Thy  wealth  flows  freely  to  the   dens  of 

Death, 
And  poisoned  streams  flow  freely  at  its 

touch. 
Wouldst  build  upon  the  wreck  of  ruined 

souls  ? 

Are  sobs  thy  music  ?  is  thy  banner  rags  ? 
Are  curses  thy  devotion,  and  the  tears 
Of  misery  thy  joy  ?     Behold  !  thy  son 
Now  lies  a  bleeding  corse  in  yonder  den, 


540 


JOHN    G.    DUNN. 


[185(1-60. 


Where  poisoned  beasts  have  met  in  deadly 

fray. 
Arouse  thee,  man  of  wealth !  oh,  count  no 

more 

Those  golden  pieces !     Thou  art  most  un 
wise  ; 

Another  year  may  scatter  all  thy  hoard. 
Know'st  not  thy  son's  a  gambler  ? 
Up  yonder  lane,  in  house  of  ill-repute, 
His  squandering  fingers  have  unloosed  thy 

purse. 

His  drunken  curse  is  loud — his  eye  is  wild, 
And  knowing  fiends  stir  up  his  appetite 
With  Death's  strong  waters.     Rouse  !  oh, 

rouse  thee  then ! 
The  earth  yawns  for  him!     Aye,  for  many 

more. 

Proud  Intellect  is  struck  with  lunacy ; 
Youth  falls  in  death ;  and  tottering  Old  Age, 
Bereft  of  veneration,  curses  life. 
Pale  Misery  stalks  where  Fortune  should 

have  dwelt ; 
While    Shame   crowds   Virtue   from   the 

street,  and  Death, 

With  many  a  hellish  minion  at  his  back, 
Lurks  in   each  den,  and  clutches  at  the 

throng. 

Awake  ye,  all  who  love  your  fellow-man, 
And,  with  a  swift,  determined  vengeance, 

sweep 
This  stain  of  murder  from  our  noble  land ! 


SPIRIT  OF  EARTHQUAKE. 

'TwAS  the  noon  of  a  winter  night,  dreary 
and  dark ; 

The  winds  were  bewailing  the  dead ; 
In  icy  cold  fetters  the  forest  was  stark, 

And  the  Torrent  was  chained  in  his  bed. 

High  o'er  the  wild  ravines,   'mid  snow- 
mantled  pines, 
A  Brigand  looked  forth  from  his  lair ; 


But  naught  met  his  gaze,  save  the  sky- 
cutting  lines 
Of  the  turreted  crags  in  the  air. 

That  day  he  had  battled !     That  day  he 
had  slain ! 

And  the  crimson  was  still  on  his  hand ; 
But  afar  he  had  left,  on  the  desolate  plain, 

The  bravest  and  best  of  his  band. 

He  startled  !     A  sound  swept  up  from  the 

gorge— 

A  voice  like  a  spirit  in  wail ! 
Still  nearer  and  hoarser  through  ravine 

and  rock 
It  swept  on  the  sorrowing  gale ! 

The  pines  were  alive  with  a  sorrow  of 

moans, 
And   the  Owl   from   his  ragged  home 

screamed ; 
The  night  far  beneath  him  was  peopled 

with  groans, 
Like  the  depths  of  a  horrible  dream. 

Huge  clouds  swept  the  mount  with  their 

billows  of  black, 

Enshrouding  his  lair  in  their  night ; 
And  the  wind  kept  howling  through  crev 
ice  and  crack, 
Like  a  spirit  of  murder  and  blight. 

But  these  he  had  heard,  and  these  he  had 

seen, 

And  his  steely  soul  heeded  them  not ; 
But,  oh !  that  death-tone,  with  its  wailings 

all  keen, 
A  chill  to  his  stern  spirit  brought. 

Dark,  wizard-like  shapes,  from  the  night- 
vapors  scowled ; 
Strange  outlines  whirled  up   the    wild 

mass ; 
Still  louder  the  fearful  winds  gibbered  and 

howled 
New  sorrows  through  cavern  and  pass ; 


1830-60.] 


J  OHX    G.    DUNN. 


541 


When  up  from  the  ravine  an  image  all 
dread, 

Through  vapor  and  midnight  was  borne ; 
Deep  thunder  awoke  at  his  horrible  tread, 

And  his  breath  was  the  terror  of  storm  ! 

A  forest  of  pines  was  his  diadem  huge, 
And  a  mantle  of  fume  girt  him  round, 

And  he  crumbled  the  crags  in  his  iron- 
strong  clutch, 
As  he  came  up  the  steep  with  a  bound ! 

The  Brigand  stood  pale  in  the  tottering 

wood ; 

His  spirit  was  swimming  in  fear ; 
And  his  pulse  was  all  still  in  its  curdle  of 

blood, 
As  the  giant's  voice  fell  on  his  ear: 

"  I've  watched  thee  for  years  in  thy  bloody 

domain  ; 

I've  watched  thee  in  murders  all  foul; 
And  I've  gathered  together  the  souls  of 

thy  slain, 
From  the  gloom  of  their  shadowy  goal ! " 

So  he  stretched  his  huge  arms  through  the 

gathering  clouds — 
"Wild    vistas    whirled   off    through    the 

gloom — 
And  the  murdered  host  came  with  their 

blood -dripping  shrouds, 
In  a  horrible  pomp  from  the  tomb ! 

"  I    am    the    Spirit   of    Earthquake,"    he 

screamed  in  his  ire, 
"  And  hell's  rocky  doorway  I  keep  ! " 
So  he  stamped  the  broad  earth  till  with 

thunder  and  fire 
Her  surface  gaped  horrid  and  deep. 

And  he  heaved  the   huge  mount  in  his 

iron-knit  grasp, 

From  his  base  in  the  tottering  world, 
And  glacier  and  forest,  with  thunderous 

crash, 
To  the  earth's  boiling  center  were  hurled. 


The  Brigand,  high  hurtled  through  tempest 

and  shock, 

Toppled  down  to  the  regions  of  doom, 
Whilst  high  o'er  his  corse  rose  a  chaos  of 

rocks, 

And    the   slaughtered   train  melted    in 
gloom. 


A  CHILD'S  THOUGHT. 

I  HAD  a  little  sister  once, 

With  mild  blue  eyes  and  curling  hair. 
One  night  we  stood  and  gazed  upon 

The  lightning's  wild  and  fitful  glare, 
And  as  each  wild,  chaotic  cloud 

Went  wreathing  up  the  startled  sky, 
And  frantic  thunders  echoed  loud, 

And  chain-fires  lit  the  vault  on  high, 
She  turned  her  little  eyes  on  me, 

And  pointing  to  the  lightning,  said : 
"  The  Good  Man's  looking  down  to  see 

If  all  good  children  are  in  bed  ! " 
Then  trembling  with  the  childish  thought, 

She  quickly  breathed  her  little  prayer, 
And  'neath  the  pictured  curtain  sought 

Concealment  from  the  lightning's  glare. 

How  sadly  memory  steals  away 

To  joys  that  live  alone  in  youth, 
When  young  hopes  sang  their  roundelay, 

And  fiction  wore  the  hue  of  truth  ! 
But  oh,  the  selfish  world  hath  taught 

My  broken  heart  another  tale — 
How  virtue's  sold  and  honor  bought, 

And  fools  upheld  while  good  men  fail. 
Tis  well,  alas  !  thou'rt  gone  beyond 

This  leprous  world — thou  wert  too  mild 
For  selfish  passion's  pompous  round — 

'Tis  well  thou'rt  in  thy  grave,  sweet  child ! 
When  glares  the  lightning-torch  on  high, 

And  storms  arouse  the  cloudy  deep, 
The  Good  Man  seeth  from  the  sky 

That  one  good  child  hath  gone  to  sleep  ! 


542 


JOHN    G.    DUNN. 


[1850-60. 


THE  SPIDER-ELF. 

WHEN  the  wolf-whelp  is  howling  in  tangle- 
wood  deep, 
And  the  forest's  low  moaning  hath  lulled 

us  to  sleep, 
The    Spider-Elf    sits   in    the    whispering 

leaves, 
And  he  worketh,  I  ween,  like  a  little 

philosopher ; 
Windward  he  traileth  each  thread  as  he 

weaves 

The  silvery  web  of  his  delicate  gossa 
mer. 

With  quick-plying  fingers  he  hurleth  it  out, 
And    carefully    watcheth    the    varying 

breeze ; 
He   whirleth,   and   twisteth,   and    flitteth 

about, 

Till  he  maketh  it  fast  in  the  neighbor 
ing  trees. 

Quaint  pranks  in  the  moonlight  he  playeth, 

I  ween, 
As  he  danceth  his  rope  o'er  the  shadowy 

stream, 
And   calleth  his   love  from   the  opposite 

tree, 

To  join  in  the  maze  of  his  wild  revelry. 
Swinging,    and     chirping,    and    skipping 

along 
To  the  wizard-like  time  of  the  whippowil's 

song — 

Skyward,  and  earthward,  the  odorous  air, 
Fitfully  sweepeth  the  gibbering  pair. 

Like   a  necklace  of  silver  and   diamond 

beads, 
The  dew-jewels  shine  on  the  gossamer 

rope, 

Or  drippeth  anon  o'er  the  flowering  weeds 
Where  the  night  moth,  and  all  of  his 

chirruping  troop 

Hold  rout  in   the   blossoms  and   bursting 
seeds. 


No  dew-fay  so  glad  when  he  windeth  his 
horn, 

From  his  cell  in  the  first  open  blossom  of 
morn  ; 

Nor  the  katydid's  chittering  song  when  she 
tells 

Her  story  of  love  in  the  bonnie  blue-bells, 

Nor  spirit  so  happy  in  water  or  wood, 

As  the  Spider-Elf  perched  o'er  the  mur 
muring  flood ; 

For  the  quaintest  of  sprites  is  this  elfin 
philosopher, 

Building  his  fairy-like  bridge  out  of  gossa 
mer. 


THE  NAME  IN  THE  AIR. 

THE  Wind,  he  is  a  crazy  wight, 

With  hollow  song  and  meanings  deep; 
What  waggish  things  he  does  at  night 

When  all  the  world  is  fast  asleep  ! 
Adown  the  street  and  up  the  lane 

He  hieth  on  his  mission  chilly ; 
Or  knocketh  at  the  window-pane, 

Or  calleth  through  the  keyhole  shrilly. 
Oh,  then  the  sleepy  servants  stare, 

And  all  the  gentle-folks  look  silly ; 
Gazing  in  the  vacant  air 
And  wond'ring  who  was  knocking  there. 

How  oft  in  solitary  spot, 

When  round  some  soft,  endearing  theme, 
We  twine  the  mental  links  of  thought 

Or  tread  the  mazes  of  a  dream, 
The  prying  wind  comes  like  a  thief, 

And  breathes  with  hollow  tone  our  name! 
We  start !  but  scarcely  moves  a  leaf 

Nor  loiters  near  a  living  frame. 
He  laugheth  then  to  see  us  stare, 

And  as  he  flitteth  on  again 
We  gaze  into  the  hollow  air, 
And  wonder  who  was  whisp'ring  there. 


1850-60.] 


JOHN    G.    DUNN. 


543 


WHO'LL  BE  THE  NEXT  TO  DIE? 

SLEEP  shut  the  World's  great  eye; 

Pale  Sorrow  found  a  balm  ; 
The  night-hawk  ceased  his  shrilly  cry, 

And  Life's  broad  sea  was  calm. 

An  undertaker  hung 

O'er  a  coffin,  all  alone ; 
And  wearily  he  sung, 

As  the  dreary  work  went  on. 
He  varnished  every  side, 

Then  drove  the  screwlets  bright, 
As    he   hummed    away   those   gloomy 

hours, 
While  Fancy  penciled  elfin  powers 

Pavilioned  in  the  night. 

All  weary  was  his  eye ; 

The  work  was  nearly  done  ; 
And  the  crazy  wind  went  wailing  by, 

And  every  cranny  moaned ; 
When,  sadly  to  his  ear, 

There  came  a  spirit  sigh : 
'*  One  coffin  only,  hast  thou  here — 

Who'll  be  the  next  to  die  ?  " 

His  heart  was  clutched  with  fright ; 

He  glared  around  the  room  ; 
The  pale  and  waning  light 

Scarce  battled  with  the  gloom. 
No  specter  met  his  eye ; 

No  fiend  was  penciled  there; 
But  the  crazy  wind  still  sorrowed  by, 

And  a  moan  was  in  the  air. 

"I'm  sure  it  was  not  me, 

Denoted  in  that  sigh ; 
Thank  God,  it  did  not  breathe  my  name, 

As  it  went  moaning  by  !  " 
But  still  again  that  spirit  came  ; 

Again  the  quaint  reply — 


"  One  coffin,  only,  hast  thou  here — 
Who'll  be  the  next  to  die  ?  " 

He  conned  his  sick  friends  o'er ; 

He  argued  every  ail; 
Thought  of  self  once  more, 

And  lip  and  cheek  were  pale. 
"  Ah  !  sure  it  was  not  me," 

Came  trembling  with  a  sigh, 
As  he  conned  away  right  wond'ringly 

Who'll  be  the  next  to  die  ? 

"  There's  the  old  man,  up  the  street, 

Who  begs  the  livelong  day, 
Death  laggers  at  his  feet, 

And  beckons  him  away. 
The  maiden,  down  the  lane, 

Will  soon  be  gone,  I  ween, 
Life's  little  lamp  doth  wane, 

Her  eye  hath  lost  its  sheen ; 

"  And  there's  my  neighbor's  child, 

Slow  languishing  away, 
'Twill  be  an  angel  soon,  I  know, 

High  at  the  fount  of  day. 
I'm  sure  it  was  not  me, 

Denoted  in  that  sigh, 
For  these,  alas,  I  ween, 

Will  be  the  next  to  die  ! " 

"  Frail  fool !  "  the  spirit  cried, 

"  Though  thou  art  stout  and  hale, 
This  night,  indeed,  shalt  thou  abide 

Low  in  the  realms  of  wail ! " 
That  night  came  grim  Disease 

Through  every  vein  and  tissue  dark  ; 
Black  midnight  brought  no  ease ; 

Pale  morning  saw  him  stark ! 

Let  every  earthly  elf 

Attend  that  spirit's  cry, 
Nor  whisper  to  himself, 

I'll  be  the  last  to  die  ! 


HELEN  TRUESDELL. 


IN  the  year  1856,  Ephraim  Morgan  and  Sons,  Cincinnati,  published  the  fifth  edi 
tion  of  a  duodecimo  volume  of  212  pages,  entitled,  "Poems  by  Helen  Truesdell." 
Mrs.  T.  was  then  a  resident  of  Newport,  Kentucky.  She  was,  in  1853  and  '54,  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  Parlor  Magazine,  a  monthly  of  considerable  merit,  which 
Jethro  Jackson  published  from  1853  to  1856,  in  Cincinnati.  Mrs.  Truesdell  had 
previously  written  for  the  Ladies'  Repository,  but  since  the  publication  of  her  book, 
has  not,  so  far  as  our  knowledge  goes,  addressed  the  public. 

Her  volume  was  favorably  noticed  by  prominent  journalists.  The  Cincinnati 
Enquirer  said  :  "  That  the  book  possesses  high  poetic  merit  we  must  allow, — this,  by 
the  way,  is  the  concession  of  our  judgment — not  the  mere  mouth-praise  of  gallantry 
for  the  sex.  Her  style  is  simple,  pure  and  sweet,  tinged  with  a  melancholy  spirit, 
which  is  often  rather  a  charm  to  poetry  than  a  defect." 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  SONG. 

I  LIST  for  thy  footsteps,  my  darling ; 

I've  waited  and  watched  for  thee  long: 
The  dim  woods  have  heard  rny  complain 
ings, 

And  sorrow  has  saddened  my  song. 

The  last  rays  of  sunset  are  gilding 
The  hill-tops  with  purple  and  gold; 

And,  lo!  in  yon  azure  dominion, 
Does  a  beautiful  rainbow  unfold. 

Like  the  hues  of  that  rainbow,  my  spirit 
All  fondly  is  blended  with  thine ; 

Then  how  canst  thou  linger  away,  love, 
When  thou  know'st  this  fond  spirit  will 
pine? 

The  game  and  the  chase  are  alluring, 
I  know,  my  bold  hunter,  for  thee ; 

But  when  borne  on  thy  swift  Arab  courser, 
Do  thy  thoughts  ever  wander  to  me  ? 


Or  e'er  to  the  home  of  my  childhood, 

The  beautiful  cot  far  away, 
Where   the  birds   sang  so  sweet,  in  their 
gladness, 

Arid  I  was  as  happy  as  they  ? 

The  lone  willow  droops  in  its  sadness ; 

The  stern  oak  stands  sturdy  and  still ; 
But  a  loved  form  is  seen  in  the  distance, 

And  footsteps  are  heard  on  the  hill. 

"  'Tis  he !  'tis  my  Ulric !  I  hear  him, 
I  see  him;  O !  joy,  he  is  here!" 

She  threw  back  her  curls  in  her  gladness, 
And  silently  brushed  off  a  tear. 

There  were  low-murmured  words  of  for 
giveness  ; 

Fond  clasping  of  hands,  and  a  kiss. 
The  past !  ah !  the  past  is  forgotten — 
What   could   mar   such   a   moment  as 
this ! 


(544) 


ORPHEUS   EVERTS. 


IN  the  Spring  of  the  year  1856,  an  octavo  pamphlet  of  eighty  pages,  printed  at  the 
office  of  the  Times  newspaper  in  La  Porte,  Indiana,  introduced  to  the  literary  world 
"  Onawequah,  an  Indian  Legend,  and  other  poems."  In  the  same  season  of  the  suc 
ceeding  year  another  pamphlet,  containing  ninety-two  pages,  was  printed  at  the  same 
office.  Its  title  was  "  The  Spectral  Bride  and  other  poems,"  by  O.  Everts.  Kind 
notices  of  "Onawequah"  had  induced  its  author  to  formally  acknowledge  his  poems, 
and  issue  a  second  collection.  The  leading  poems  in  these  pamphlets  exhibit  both 
poetic  feeling  and  poetic  art,  but  one  not  elaborated  with  care  sufficient  to  make  them 
memorable.  Some  of  the  minor  poems  in  Mr.  Everts's  collections  have  been  widely 
circulated  and  much  admired. 

Mr.  Everts  is  a  native  of  Indiana.  He  was  born  at  Liberty,  Union  county,  De 
cember  eighteenth,  1826.  His  father,  who  had  been  a  physician  in  Cincinnati  when 
it  was  a  village,  settled  in  Indiana  before  it  was  organized  as  a  State.  The  son  en 
joyed  limited  common  school  advantages,  but  was  a  diligent  reader,  and,  having  de 
termined  to  embrace  his  father's  profession,  was  graduated  as  a  Doctor  of  Medicine 
when  he  was  nineteen  years  old.  He  practiced  medicine  and  surgery  for  several 
years,  but  having,  meantime,  developed  a  poetic  faculty,  abandoned  his  profession  for 
editorial  life.  He  was  editor  of  the  Times,  La  Porte,  Indiana,  in  1857,  when  he  ac 
cepted  an  appointment,  under  President  Buchanan,  as  Register  of  a  United  States 
Land  Office,  and  has  since  resided  at  Hudson,  Wisconsin.  Mr.  Everts  is  an  amateur 
artist  of  merit,  and  hopes  to  paint  poetry  as  well  as  write  it,  when  a  few  years  of 
thoughtful  experience  have  given  him  skill  and  confidence. 


TIME. 

"  OUT  upon  Time ! " — said  the  Lord  of 

rhyme, 

With  a  lordly  lip,  in  tones  sublime ! 
Out  upon  Time !  We  say  not  so — 
Time  is  our  friend,  and  never  our  foe ! 

He  calms  our  fears,  and  dries  our  tears, 
And  plucks  the  sting  from  many  a  woe. 

Time  is  the  father  of  many  years ! 
Many  are  dead — and  many  more 
Shall  follow  the  shadows  gone  before. 


Yet  weep  not,  for  lo!  death  only  deprives, 
That  Time  may  find  room  and  food  for 
new  lives. 

Rail  not  at  Time !  for  our  trust  in  him 
Fills  the  beaker  of  hope  to  the  brim ! 
Bubbles  of  joy  like  foam  on  the  wine 
Promise  us  nectar — bumpers  divine ! 

We  drink,  and  we  drink, 

And  our  glasses  clink, 
But  never  are  empty,  never  sink : 
For  a  generous  hand  hath  Father  Time, 
And  his  vintages  gush  in  every  clime ! 


(545  ) 


35 


546 


ORPHEUS    EVERTS. 


[1850-60. 


THE  DEAD. 

WHY  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

Are  they  not  in  Freedom's  embrace  ? 
Like  serfs  who  have  looked  in  the  face 

Of  their  Tyrant,  less  noble  than  they ! 
And  felt  that  their  chains  were  disgrace, 

And  proudly  have  cast  them  away ! 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

Are  they  not  more  blessed  by  far  ? 
Like  heroes  gone  home  from  the  war 

With  laurels — whilst  we  in  the  field, 
In  the  moats  and  the  ditches  still  war, 

Ere  we  to  the  conqueror  yield ! 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

Are  they  not  still  better  than  we  ? 
Like  mariners  gone  from  the  sea, 

With   its   troubles,  and   breakers,   and 

foam, 
Gone  off  from  th'  tempestuous  sea, 

To  peace,  and  the  quiet  of  home. 

Why  do  we  mourn  for  the  dead  ? 

What  is  their  state,  and  our  own  ? 
Like  emigrants  gone  to  a  zone 

Of  beauty,  of  love,  and  of  light, 
Are  they — while  around  us,  alone, 

Are  darkness,  and  winter,  arid  blight. 


HEART  AND  SOUL. 

LOVE  took  my  heart  and  sought  a  wife, 
Saying  "Who  will  have  it?"—"  I,"  sai 

one. 
My  heart  leaped  toward  her,  and  ther 

spun 
Through  every  vein  new  threads  of  life. 

But  when  my  Soul  looked  out,  and  knew 
Whither  my  heart  had  gone,  it  said, 


"  Come  back  !  come  back  !  without  me, 

wed, 
hy  life  to  her  will  prove  untrue  !" 

nd  so  my  soul  took  back  my  heart 
And  buried  it  within  my  breast ; 
Saying  "Rest,  thou  foolish  blind  one, 

rest! 
For  thou  and  I  shouldst  never  part." 

aid  though  love  since  hath  often  knocked, 
And  asked  my  heart  to  go  astray, 
My  soul  refused  to  point  the  way, 

)r  ope'  the  cell  wherein  'twas  locked. 


though  it  oft  laments  its  fate, 
And  strives  to  be  released,  my  soul, 
Relentless,  keeps  it  in  control 
With  "  Wait  a  little  longer,  wait ! " 

There'll  come  a  time,  I  know  not  when, 
Some  one  will  ask  my  soul  to  sup : 
My  heart  shall  leap  into  the  cup, 

And  all  as  one  shall  mingle  then. 


WINTER  RAIN. 

How  dreary  is  the  winter  rain — 

How  dismal,  and  how  dark  the  hour — 
How  bitter,  and  how  cold  the  shower, 

That  never  seems  the  clouds  to  drain ! 

How  spiritless  the  winter  rain. 

It  hath  no  voice  to  make  it  grand! 

No  lightnings  leap  from  out  the  hand 
That  drives  it  o'er  the  land  and  main ! 

There  is  no  cheer  in  winter  rain, 

Like  that  which  falls  in  April  days — 
Which    swelling   buds    and  flowers  all 
praise — 

And  brings  forth  laughter  from  the  plain ! 


1850-60.] 


ORPHEUS    EVERTS. 


547 


The  groves  lament  the  winter  rain. 
Bereft  of  all  their  Summer  leaves — 
Their  bare  arms  dripping  like  the  eaves 

Are  stiffened,  it  would  seem,  with  pain ! 

Nor  man  nor  beast  loves  winter  rain. 

It  brings  .no  joy — suggesteth  none  ! 

It    comes    with    sigh,   and    wail,    and 

moan — 
It  chills  the  heart,  and  chills  the  brain. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  ONAWEQUAH." 

MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

THE  Bison  slept  upon  the  plain, 
The  dew  was  dripping  from  his  mane ; 
His  lazy  jaws  were  mumbling  o'er 
The  grass  they'd  cropped  the  day  before. 
The  wild  Deer  sought  the  shaded  brink 
Of  moonlit  stream,  to  rest,  and  drink ; 
The  sleepless  Wolf  upon  his  trail — 
With   peering  front   snuffed   the  fresh 

gale. 

The  Beaver  looked  out  of  his  cabin  door, 
And  the  Otter  played  with  shells  on  the 

shore. 
The   wild   Goose  hooded   her  head  in 

sleep, 

Resting  her  bosom  on  the  deep ; 
Her  hood  was   the   nether  down  of  her 

wing — 
And  she  rocked  to  sleep  on  the  water's 

swing. 

In  an  old  oak  tree,  on  a  leafless  limb, 
Rested  an  Owl,  in  moonlight  dim  ; 
His  wild  too-hoo,  through  the  forest  ring 
ing* 

Startled  the  child  on  a  bent  bough  swing 
ing; 

With  the  teetering  winds  for  a  "  lullaby," 
Its  cradle  a  tree,  its  blanket,  the  sky ! 
And  high  above,  on  a  rocky  peak, 


Where    night-winds    through   the   cedars 
creak, 

An  Eagle  was  perched,  from  danger  free, 
Scorning  the  height  of  forest  tree, 
Which,  far  beneath  his  strong  wing's 


Was  shrouded  in  mist  of  vapors  gray. 
The  Grouse-Cock  watched  by  the  silent 

hen  ; 

The  Serpent  coiled  in  the  slimy  fen ; 
The  innocent  Hare  with  tuft  of  white, 
Sported  his  limbs  in  soft  moonlight, 
Which  round  and    round  o'er  valley  and 

hill, 
Was  dancing  in  fairy-like  loveliness  still. 

THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

No  palor,  on  her  brown  cheek  spreading, 
Betrays  the  danger  she  is  treading ; 
Her  feet  as  light  as  nimble  deer's. 
Are  winged  with  love's  elastic  fears ; 
Her  moccasins  adorned  with  quills, 
Tread  soft,  as  morning  o'er  the  hills ; 
Her  glossy  braids  of  raven  hair, 
Are  floating  round  her  shoulders  bare, 
Her  swelling  bosom,  tinged  with  hue 
Of  sunny  brown,  has  felt  the  dew ; 
And  gaudy  scarf  of  crimson  dye, 
Obscured  its  beauty  from  the  eye, 
About  her  waist,  a  beaded  belt 
Suspends  a  skirt  of  rudest  felt ; 
Her  rounded  limbs,  of  tapering  mould, 
Disdain  protection  from  the  cold ; 
Her  eye — the  Eagle's  on  yon  peak 
Hath    not    the    power    which    hers    can 

speak ! 

The  mildest  star  in  heaven's  blue  zone, 
Hath  not  the  softness  of  its  tone, 
When  love  hath  kindled  in  its  orb 
A.  light  the  heart  may  all  absorb ! 
The  lightning's  gleam  in  darkest  night, 
[s  not  more  scathing  in  its  light, 
When  rage  hath  fanned  it  into  name, 
A.nd    'roused    the    blood   no    po'.vor    cm 

tame ! 


HORATIO  N.  POWERS. 


HORATIO  NELSON  POWERS  was  born  at  Amenia,  Duchess  county.  New  York, 
on  the  thirtieth  day  of  April,  1826.  He  laid  the  foundation  for  a  liberal  education 
at  Amenia  Seminary,  in  his  native  State,  and  graduated  at  Union  College,  Schenec- 
tady.  Having  determined  to  enter  the  Christian  Ministry,  he  then  passed  through 
the  course  of  study  at  the  General  Theological  Seminary  of  New  York  City.  In 
1857  he  was  married,  at  Lancaster,  Pennsylvania,  to  a  daughter  of  Francis  Fauvel 
Gouraud,  formerly  a  Professor  in  the  University  of  France. 

Mr.  Powers  is  a  contributor  to  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  Graham's  Magazine, 
and  the  Ladies'  Repository  of  Cincinnati,  and  he  was  one  of  the  writers  for  Putnam's 
Magazine.  Several  of  his  poems  have  been  copied  into  Littell's  Living  Age,  and  other 
periodicals  of  wide  circulation. 

Mr.  Powers  is  a  clergyman  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  is  stationed  at 
Davenport,  Iowa. 


THE  RTVER  OF  TEARS. 

IN  the  ghastly  dusk  of  cypress  shade 
O'er  the  beaten  sands  of  a  dismal  glade, 
The  River  of  Tears,  with  ceaseless  flow, 
Rolled  its  bitter  waves  of  human  woe. 

The  herbless  mountains  that  gird  the  vale 
In  an  endless  dawn,  stand  cold  and  pale ; 
And  the  lusterless  clouds  droop  down  so 

low, 
They  touch  the  face  of  the  stream  below. 

No  honeyed  blossoms  breathe  balm  around 
In   the   funeral   gloom   that   shrouds   the 

ground ; 

But  dark,  rank  weeds  reach  greedily  o'er 
To  sip  the  surge  on  the  level  shore. 

Wild  shrieks  oft  startle  the  dusky  air, 
And  the  smothered  howl  of  mad  despair, — 
While  the  pleading  wail  of  love's  last  cry 
Floats  o'er  the  waves  to  the  leaden  sky. 


In  aimless  courses  deep  footprints  go, 
Of  the  suffering  ones  of  long  ago — 
As  the  sad  procession,  with  clasped  hands, 
Went  wandering  over  the  barren  sands. 

In  the  sullen  shadows  brooding  here, 
Stalk  pallid  sorrow  and  shivering  fear, 
Frail  youth,  bent  age,  and  the  bad  and  bold, 
And  the  gentle  and  good  whose  lives  grew 
cold. 

In  hopeless  anguish  some  hide  their  eyes, 
And  with  pale,  wan  looks  some  watch  the 

skies, 

Some  beat  their  bosoms  with  frenzied  stare, 
And  some  feel  round  in  the  empty  air. 

Thus  in  mournful  groups  they  come  and  go. 
None  tells  to  another  his  weight  of  woe ! 
And  the  swollen  stream,  'neath  the  dusky 

shroud, 
Goes  down  to  its  sea  of  noiseless  cloud. 


(548) 


1850-60.] 


HORATIO    N.   POWERS. 


549 


THE  ANGEL'S  BRIDGE. 

WHENE'ER  a  rainbow  slept  along  the  sky, 
The  thoughtful   child    expected   Angel 

bands 

Would  glide  upon  its  gorgeous  path  of  light, 
With    half   furled   wings    and    meekly 
folded  hands! 

For  he  had  dreamed  the  rainbow  was  a 

bridge, 

On  which  came  bright  ones  from  the  far- 
off  shore, — 

A  strange  and   pleasant   dream — but   he 
"believed"— 

And  his   young  heart  with  love's  sweet 
faith  ran  o'er. 

How  full  of  -sunny  hopefulness  his  face, 
How  many  tender  welcomes  filled  his 

eyes, 

When  for  celestial  visitants  he  watched, 
In   mute   and   holy  converse  with  the 
skies ! 

The  saintly  child  grew  very  wan  and  weak ; 

And  as  he  lay  upon  the  bed  of  pain, 
One  day  of  storm,  he  only  gently  said, 

"When  will  the  Angel's   Bridge  reach 
down  again?" 

In   musing   trance  while   gazing   on   the 

clouds, 

A  flood  of  sunlight  lit  the  lumed  air, 
And  springing  forth,  as  if  from  God's  own 

arms, 
A  lustrous  rainbow  shown  divinely  there. 

A  tender  smile  played  o'er  the  child's  pale 

lips — 
"Down  the  bright  arch  the  white  robed 

Angels  come, 
O,  see  their  shining  pinions! — their  sweet 

eyes ! " — 

He  said — and,  'mid  their  soft  embraces, 
floated  home. 


THE  FISHER  BOY.* 

MOULDED  in  pure  and  perfect  grace, 
His  white  feet  poised  on  silent  sands, 

And  boyhood's  spirit  on  his  face, 

A  shape  of  life's  best  hour  he  stands. 

His  net  droops  on  the  idle  oar, 
He  listens  as  to  whispers  dear, — 

What  hears  he  on  the  mighty  shore, 
Pressing  the  sea-shell  to  his  ear? 

Is  it  the  soft-toned  rapture  caught 
From  rosy  lips  of  Naiades, 

That  burns,  with  pictured  joy,  his  thought 
Of  the  rare  beauty  of  the  seas  ? 

Is  it  some  loved,  unuttered  name, 
Wooed   by   the   waves    from    lands 
remote, 

Or  echo  of  forgotten  fame, 

Kept  in  the  shell's  vermilion  throat; 

Or  some  strange  syllables  he  seeks, 
Of  ancient  ocean's  mystic  lore, — 

The  solemn  measures  that  she  speaks 
With  charmed  tongues  forevermore  ? 

Still  listening  in  that  keen  suspense, 
What  curious  fancies  come  and  go; 

What  pleasant  wishes  thrill  his  sense 
For  what  he   ne'er,  ah,  ne'er   shall 
know ! 

0,  artist!  in  whose  deathless  thought 
This  radiant  being  lived  and  grew, 

More     glorious     meaning     hast     thou 

wrought, 
Than  thy  divine  conception  knew  ! 

For  'tis  the  type  of  Youth's  rich  trance, 
Beside  the  wide  world's  unknown  sea, 

Weaving  the  sweet  tones  of  romance 
Into  the  promised  bliss  to  be. 


*  A  Statue  by  Hiram  Powers.* 


HELEN   LOUISA   BOSTWICK. 


No  woman  poet  of  our  country,  as  the  writer  of  this  notice  thinks,  has  surpassed 
Mrs.  Bostwick  in  those  graces  of  thought  and  style  which  distinguish  her  poems. 
Her  choice  of  words  is  extremely  felicitous ;  her  rhyme  is  rich  and  full ;  her  verse  is 
always  sweet  and  harmonious.  While  there  is  a  certain  warmth  of  color  in  her  style 
that  approaches  sensuousness,  her  thought  is  delicate  and  womanly.  She  is  suffi 
ciently  versatile,  but  most  of  her  effusions  have  been  called  forth  by  those  dear  little 
common  incidents  of  life  which  women  are  peculiarly  gifted  to  invest  with  poetry.  I 
bestow  upon  Mrs.  Bostwick  a  sincere  praise  that  need  not  waste  itself  in  compliment. 
Her  poems  betray  study  of  the  best  authors  of  our  language,  without  being  the  less 
original.  If  her  faculty  does  not  amount  to  genius,  it  is  at  least  transcendent  talent. 

Mrs.  Bostwick  is  the  daughter  of  Putnam  Barrow,  a  highly  respected  physician. 
She  was  born  in  Charlestown,  New  Hampshire,  in  1826,  and  was  married  in  Ohio  in 
1844;  her  present  residence  is  at  Ravenna,  Portage  county,  Ohio.  In  girlhood  she 
received  the  portion  with  which  New  England  endows  all  her  children — a  common 
school  education — with  an  academic  course  under  Rev.  A.  A.  Miner,  of  Boston. 

I  forgive  myself  readily  for  quoting  what  she  so  gracefully  says  of  herself,  in  a  let 
ter  to  the  editor  of  the  present  volume  : 

Though  I  belong  to  the  West,  love  it,  appreciate  it,  and  glory  in  it,  and  have  no  interest  else 
where,  yet  I  believe  that  whatever  of  poetry  is  in  my  nature  had  its  origin  and  nurture  among  the 
hill-sides  and  valleys  of  my  New  England  home.  Nestled  close  at  the  foot  of  old  Ascutney,  with 
the  Connecticut  upon  one  hand,  and  upon  the  other  the  wild  hills  with  their  jutting  ribs  and  spines 
of  granite,  among  which  my  feet  even  now  could  track  out  familiar  pathways — was  my  birthplace 
and  home  for  twelve  years.  In  1838  my  father  removed  to  Ohio,  and  is  living,  with  my  mother, 
near  Ravenna. 

My  life  has  been  so  emphatically  a  "  still  life,"  that  I  cannot  conceive  how  any  sketch  of  it  could 
be  of  interest  to  any  person  outside  the  circle  of  friends.  The  little  of  incident  that  has  diversified 
it  has  been  of  the  quietest  description,  and  all  of  excitement  that  has  disturbed  it  has  been  among 
the  under-currents,  not  upon  the  surface.  I  have  no  story  to  tell. 

Mrs.  Bostwick  has  long  been  a  favorite  contributor  of  literary  journals,  among 
which  we  can  mention  the  National  Era,  Ohio  Farmer,  New  York  Independent,  Home 
Journal,  Saturday  Evening  Post,  and  the  Home  Monthly,  New  York.  It  is  hoped 
that  it  will  not  be  long  till  she  gives  to  the  world  a  bouquet  of  those  poetic  flowers 
which  have  made  her  name  so  fragrant. 

She  has  written  charmingly  for  children,  those  little  stories  which  few  write  suc 
cessfully.  A  volume  of  these  which  she  collected,  has  been  published  by  Follett, 
Foster  &  Company,  under  the  title  of  "  Buds,  Blossoms  and  Berries." 


(  550) 


1850-60.] 


HELEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


551 


LAST  YEAR'S  NESTS. 

ONE  May  morn,  when  the  sun  was  bright, 
And  orchard  blooms  of  pink  and  white, 
Shook  off  the  showers  of  yesternight — 

I  spied  a  farmer,  on  his  way, 
With  sturdy  team  of  roan  and  bay, 
To  where  the  half-plowed  meadow  lay. 

I  liked  the  old  man's  heartsome  tone ; 
And  caring  not  to  muse  alone, 
Measured  my  pace  with  sturdy  roan. 

The  reddening  boughs  drooped  overhead — 
The  moist  earth  mellowed  'neath  our  tread. 
We  talked  of  beauty,  and  of  bread. 

He  told  me  how  young  farmer  Boone 
Would  sow  too  late,  and  reap  too  soon, 
And  in  wrong  quarters  of  the  moon — 

How  fell  the  pear-tree's  finest  graft 
Before  his  knife,  and  milkmaids  laughed 
At  his  odd  feats  in  dairycraft. 

And  all  because,  in  cities  bred, 

His  youth  behind  a  counter  sped, 

Where  dust  and  ink  had  clogged  his  head  ! 

Sudden  the  old  man  stepped  aside — 
A  bird's  nest  on  the  tree  he  spied, 
And  flung  it  to  the  breezes  wide. 

"  Where  last  year's  nests,  forlorn,  I  see, 
On  flowering  shrub,  or  bearing  tree, 
I  fling  them  to  the  winds,"  said  he ; — 

"  Else  insects  there  will  shelter  find, 
And  caterpillars  spin  and  wind, 
Marring  the  young  fruit's  tender  rind." 

Most  simple  words ! — yet  none  can  tell 
How  through  my  spirit's  depths  they  fell, 
As  iron-weights  sink  in  a  well. 


And  why,  I  cried,  oh !  human  Heart, 
When  all  thy  singing  ones  depart, 
Learn'st  thou  so  ill  the  yeoman's  art ! 

Why  seek,  with  Spring's  returning  glow, 

The  music  and  the  golden  flow 

Of  wings  that  vanished  ere  the  snow  ? 

Why  long  remembered,  long  deplored, 
The  brooded  Hopes  that  sang  and  soared, 
The  Loves  that  such  rare  radiance  poured  ? 

Oh,  memory-haunted  and  oppress'd — 
Lorn  heart !  the  peasants'  toil  is  best — 
Down  with  thy  last  year's  empty  nest ! 


THE  LITTLE  COFFIN. 

'TwAS  a  tiny  rosewood  thing, 
Ebon  bound,  and  glittering 
With  its  stars  of  silver  white, 
Silver  tablet,  blank  and  bright, 
Downy  pillowed,  satin  lined, 
That  I,  loitering,  chanced  to  find 
'Mid  the  dust,  and  scent,  and  gloom 
Of  the  undertaker's  room, 
Waiting  empty — ah !  for  whom  ? 

Ah !  what  love-watched  cradle-bed 
Keeps  to-night  the  nestling  head ; 
Or,  on  what  soft,  pillowing  breast 
Is  the  cherub  form  at  rest, 
That  ere  long,  with  darkened  eye 
Sleeping  to  no  lullaby, 
Whitely  robed,  and  still,  and  cold, 
Pale  flowers  slipping  from  its  hold, 
Shall  this  dainty  couch  enfold  ? 

Ah  !  what  bitter  tears  shall  stain 
All  this  satin  sheen  like  rain, 
And  what  towering  hopes  be  hid 
'Neath  this  tiny  coffin  lid, 
Scarcely  large  enough  to  bear 


552 


HELEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


[1850-60. 


Little  words,  that  must  be  there, 
Little  words,  cut  deep  and  true, 
Bleeding  mothers'  hearts  anew — 
Sweet,  pet  name,  and  "  Aged  Two.' 

Oh  !  can  sorrow's  hovering  plume 
Round  our  pathway  cast  a  gloom 
Chill  and  darksome,  as  the  shade 
By  an  infant's  coffin  made ! 
From  our  arms  an  angel  flies, 
And  our  startled,  dazzled  eyes 
Weeping  round  its  vacant  place, 
Cannot  rise  its  path  to  trace, 
Cannot  see  the  angel's  face ! 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  DIMPLES. 

MY  mischief-loving  maiden  Bell ! 

Sit  here  and  listen  while  I  tell — 

Awhile  your  saucy  tongue  to  tame — 

A  pretty  tale  without  a  name, 

Save  this,  of  "  How  the  Dimples  Came." 

A  merry  girl,  the  story  goes, 

With  eyes  of  violet,  cheeks  of  rose, 

One  day,  on  feet   that  noiseless  stepp'd, 

Behind  her  lover,  tiptoe  crept ; 

And  peep'd,  with  many  a  bow  and  bend, 

While  he,  all  unsuspecting,  penn'd 

A  timorous  sonnet  to  the  maid, 

Which    doubted,    hoped,    despair'd,    and 

pray'd. 

She  peep'd,  and  read,  too  pleased  by  half, 
And   smiled,   and   smiled,  but   durst   not 

laugh  ; 

And  so  a  strange  event  befel ; 
It  happen'd  thus,  as  I  shall  tell : 
The  dainty  mouth,  too  small,  I  doubt, 
To  let  so  much  of  smiling  out, 
Became  a  prison  most  secure, 
And  held  the  lovely  legions  sure. 
Wearied,  at  length,  of  durance  vile, 
Impatient  grew  each  captive  smile ; 


Still,  fain  some  outlet  new  to  seek, 
They  wreathed  and  coil'd  in  either  cheek, 
Still  at  the  ruby  portals  fast, 
Vainly  sought  exit,  and  at  last 
Grown  desperate,  so  the  story  closes, 
Cleft  a  new  passage  through  the  roses ! 

Love's  kiss  half  heal'd  the  tender  harm, 
And  gave  the  wound  its  dearest  charm ; 
Since  not  unthankful,  Beauty  keeps 
Her  cheek  less  sacred  than  her  lips, 
And  while  they  smile  their  prudent  "  No," 
So  fair  the  deepening  dimples  show, 
That  Love,  reminded  of  his  claim, 
May  take  the  guerdon  without  blame : 
And  this  is  How  the  Dimples  Came. 


TOO  LATE! 

I'M  weary  with  my  walk,  Mabel, 
Yet  'tis  only  half  a  mile, 
Through  the  meadow,  to  the  shadow 
Of  the  oak-tree  by  the  stile. 

"  And  'twas  there  I  sat  an  hour,  Mabel, 
By  this  jeweled  watch  of  mine, 

Looking  over  through  the  clover, 
Till  the  mowers  went  to  dine. 

"  They  were  merry  at  their  labor, 
Laughing,  singing,  all  save  one : 

Silent,  lonely,  toiled  he  only, 
Joyless,  'neath  the  harvest  sun. 

"  But  I  thought  of  his  mirthful  frolics, 

In  the  olden  harvest  times, 
Of  the  laughter  that  came  after 

All  his  riddles  and  his  rhymes. 

"  Of  one  nooning  in  that  oak-shade, 
When  the  saucy,  gleaning  girls 

Bade  him,  as  he  prized  their  favor, 
Weave  a  chaplet  for  their  curls. 


1850-60.] 


HELEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


553 


"  From  the  brier-bushes  near  him, 
Straight  he  cut  the  tasseled  stems, 

Lightly    bound,    and    laughing,    crowned 

them 
With  the  treacherous  diadems. 

"  But  from  mine  the  thorns  he  parted, 

Mine  alone,  of  all  the  band ; 
Was  it  warning  of  my  scorning, 

That  the  sharpest  pierced  his  hand  ? 

"  Yon  fair  city's  proudest  mansion 
Opes  for  me  its  marble  bowers, 

Fountains  springing,  rare  birds  singing 
Songs  of  love  to  tropic  flowers. 

"  Yet  lovelier  on  my  sight,  Mabel, 

Comes  the  home  my  childhood  knew ; 

Yon  low  cabin,  with  its  robin, 
And  its  morning-glories  blue  ! 

"  What  though  robes  of  Ind  and  Cashmere, 
Silks  and  velvets,  make  my  tire — 

I  am  dreaming,  'mid  their  gleaming, 
Of  your  loom  beside  the  fire ; 

"  Twining  still  my  childish  fingers 
In  your  spindle's  snowy  sheath  ; — 

Ah  !  the  linen  of  your  spinning, 
Hid  no  heart-ache  underneath. 

"  What  though  in  my  casket  flashing, 
Pearls  might  grace  a  queen's  bandeau, 

Wild  flowers  growing  in  the  mowing 
Never  scarred  my  forehead  so. 

"  For  I  bought  them  with  a  heart,  Ma 
bel,— 

Paid  Ambition's  cruel  price  ! 
Now  the  haunting  demon,  taunting, 

Mocks  me  with  the  sacrifice. 

"  Take  away  the  couch  and  cordial, 
Let  the  gilt-caged  captive  pine ; 

'Tis  my  spirit  that  is  wearied, 
Can  you  give  it  rest  and  wine?" 


Go,  go,  leave  the  false  one  lonely, 
Till  this  struggle  be  o'erpast ; 

Lorn  heart,  breaking  with  love's  aching, 
Pride  has  failed  your  need  at  last ! 


SOMEWHERE. 

How  little  do  we  know  or  heed 

Where,  'mid  life's  chance  and  changing, 
Lies  the  sure  fruitage  of  our  deed, 

Or  destiny's  arranging. 
Somewhere  the  trifles  live,  that  still 

We  fling  from  hands  uncaring ; 
Some  covert  hides  the  good  or  ill 

That  late  for  us  is  bearing. 

Somewhere  there  grows  a  slender  tree 

My  careless  fingers  planted, 
Which  yet  a  stately  shade  may  be, 

Time-crowned  and  memory-haunted. 
A  climbing  rose  that  blooms  at  morn, 

Its  fragrant  incense  giving — 
Perchance  a  bitter  fruit — a  thorn — 

Yet  owes  to  me  its  living. 

Somewhere  there  is  a  lowly  cot, 

Where  kind  thoughts,  writ  in  weakness, 
May  come  like  birds,  when  I  am  not, 

And  cheer,  like  song,  its  bleakness ; 
Somewhere  a  white  and  hollow  cheek, 

An  eye  too  restless  shining, 
For  some  low  word  that  I  may  speak, 

May  cease  awhile  their  pining. 

Somewhere  a  careless  action  wrought, 

A  moment's  lapse  of  duty, 
Ma^  leave  a  burned  and  blackened  blot, 

To  desolate  life's  beauty. 
Somewhere — God  pardon — hasty  words, 

Like  arrows  heedless  winging, 
Find  out  some  true  heart's  tender  chords, 

And  pierce  with  cruel  stinging. 


554 


HELEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


[1850-60. 


Somewhere  there  is  a  spot  of  ground, 

Now,  haply,  green  and  blooming, 
Whereon,  ere  long,  a  withered  mound 

Shall  rise  for  my  entombing. 
Somewhere  there  waits  a  vacant  stone, 

Perchance  unhewn,  unbroken, 
To  bear  my  name  and  age  alone,  ( 

And  crave  Love's  tearful  token. 

Somewhere  there  is  a  robe  more  bright 

Than  this  my  spirit  weareth, 
No  sin-spot  stains  its  perfect  white, 

Nor  shade  of  grief  it  beareth. 
Somewhere — I  know  not — none  can  see 

Beyond  Death's  hurrying  river 
My  Father  keeps  a  place  for  me 

Safe  in  His  house — forever! 


LULIE. 

FROM  a  meadow  sloping  West, 
Full  of  April  lambs  at  play, 

Came  one,  whiter  than  the  rest, 
From  its  merry  mates  away. 

Came  beside  me — so  I  dreamed, 
And  I  marked  its  lifted  eye 

Had  a  pleading  look,  that  seemed 
Full  of  strange  humanity  ; 

As  I  bowed  with  fond  caress 

Toward  the  lonely  lambkin  strayed 

(Full  of  painful  tenderness 
Half  I  felt,  and  half  afraid)  ; 

Roses  on  its  neck  I  found, 

And  I  knew  them  withering  there, 
For  the  roses  that  I  bound 

Yester-morn  in  Lulie's  hair. 

Trembling,  calling  Lulie's  name 
With  a  faint  and  fearful  call, 

Woke  I  then,  as  morning's  flame 
Kindled  on  my  chamber  wall. 


Streamed  across  a  pillow  white, 
Quivered  o'er  a  little  head, 

Where  the  chestnut  hair  was  bright, 
Long,  and  soft,  and  ringleted. 

Lulie  lay  beside  me  there, 

And  the  rose-light  as  I  gazed, 

Bathed  the  dimpled  shoulders  bare, 
Tinged  the  velvet  cheek  upraised. 

But  the  soul's  sweet  curtains,  drawn, 
Stirred  not,  ope'd  not,  as  I  wept ; 

And  I  knew  my  lamb  had  gone 
With  the  Shepherd  while  I  slept. 

Lulie's  grave  is  green  and  gay, 
But  our  fields  are  bare  and  cold ; 

Who  would  call  my  lamb  away 
From  the  shelter  of  the  Fold  ? 


WITHIN  THE  URN. 

GOD  gave  me  many  a  goodly  gift ; 

A  sense  to  feel,  an  eye  to  know 
All  forms  of  Beauty,  that  uplift 

The  soul  from  things  below. 

He  gave  me  ready  brain  to  plan — 
Hands  apt  enough  its  will  to  do — 

A  heart  of  reverent  faith  in  man — 
Kindred,  and  way-mates  true, 

Whose  voices  cheered  the  darksome  days; 

A  cross  to  kneel  by,  and  the  care 
Of  little  feet,  whose  wandering  ways 

Kept  mine  from  many  a  snare. 

And  midst  these  blessings  lent  and  given, 
Of  those  who  could  be  friends  to  me, 

As  angels  breathe  the  word  in  Heaven, 
He  gave  me  two  or  three. 

No  more !  Ah,  I  could  never  learn 
To  draw  Life's  ravishing  nectar  up 


1850-60.] 


HELEN    L.    BOSTWICK. 


555 


From  every  wilding  way -side  fern, 
And  honeysuckle  cup. 

Not  but  I  blest  them — bade  them  bless ; 

But  if  to  me  they  seldom  brought 
That  vital  balm  of  perfectness, 

The  sustenance  I  sought ; 

If  oft  I  pined  for  that  which  seemed 

Free  as  the  air  to  all  beside, 
And  held  for  Fate  what  others  deemed 

Indifference,  or  Pride ; 

What  marvel,  that  when,  thirsty-lipped, 
I  came  where  royal  roses  grew, 

I  claimed  them  for  my  own,  and  sipped 
Their  winy  sweets  like  dew. 

It  was  my  right :  for  life,  for  growth 
In  all  life's  purest,  most  divine ; 

The  need  was  on  me :  choice,  God  knoweth, 
Was  not  the  flower's  nor  mine. 

And  yet,  in  grasping  all,  I  erred — 
Not  all  were  germs  of  godlike   birth ; 

In  some,  the  heavenly  ichor  stirred ; 
In  some,  mere  sap  of  earth. 

How  soon  these  languished  on  the  stem, 
Your  thought  must  needs  respond  (for  I 

Speak  harshlier  of  the  dead  than  them), 
And  thus  have  answered  why 

I  cannot  bend  me  at  your  pride, 

More  than  I  wound  me  with  your  scorn ; 

What  care  I  that  my  rose  that  died, 
Had  e'er  so  sharp  a  thorn? 

Died  ?     Nay,  not  as  the  world  calls  dead ; 

How  many  a  proper  flower  has  bloomed 
In  trimmed  and  cultured  garden  bed, 

Tintless,  and  unperfumed! 

And  thus  my  rose  of  friendship  lives, 
Arid  buds  and  blooms  its  wasting  hour ; 

And  common  boon  of  smiling  gives 
To  common  sun  and  shower. 


Pleasant — yet  not  a  thing  to  choose, 
As  ere  the  unkindly  beak  of  Doubt 

Let  the  sweet  odor-spirit  loose, 
And  bled  the  color  out. 

I  pray,  as  I  have  ever  prayed, 

"  God  bless  thee,"  with  no  laggard  will, 

The  lake,  with  all  its  lilies  dead, 
Reflects  the  green  boughs  still. 

I  pray,  as  I  have  ever  prayed — 

"  Christ,  fill    these    needy  hearts  from 
thine!" 

On  lakes  that  mourn  their  lilies  dead, 
The  holy  stars  still  shine ! 


LITTLE  DANDELION. 

LITTLE  Bud  Dandelion 

Hears  from  her  nest — 
"  Merry-heart,  starry-eye, 

Wake  from  your  rest!" 
Wide  ope  the  em'rald  lids ; 

Robins  above, — 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Smiles  at  his  love. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy  banks, 

Clad  but  in  green, 
Where  in  the  Mays  agone, 

Bright  hues  were  seen. 
Wild  pinks  are  slumbering, 

Violets  delay — 
True  little  Dandelion 

Greeteth  the  May. 

Meek  little  Dandelion 

Groweth  more  fair, 
Till  dries  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun, 

Fiercely  and  high, — 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye ! 


556 


HELEN    L.    BOS  T  WICK. 


[1850-60. 


Dead  little  Dandelion 

In  her  white  shroud, 
Heareth  the  Angel-breeze 

Call  from  the  cloud. 
Tiny  plumes  fluttering 

Make  no  delay, 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away. 


PEACE. 

THE  sweet  face  is  turned  to  the  pillow, 
And  loosely  the  white  hands  lie : 

Oh,  beautiful,  placid  angel, 
It  cannot  be  hard  to  die ! 

The  tress  has  not  stirred  from  her  fore 
head, 

And  the  cyclamen  leaf  is  in  sight 
On  her  bosom, — just  as  I  left  it 

In  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Ere  I  kissed  the  out-going  spirit, 
As  it  passed  in  a  gentle  sigh  : — 

It  could  give  me  no  word  of  meaning. 
It  could  kiss  me  no  reply ; 


But  I  felt  that  the  lips  were  warmer 
Than  they  had  been  hours  before, 

Ere  the  fire  that  had  dropped  from 

altar, 
Had  crept  to  the  temple  door. 

Let  the  meek  face  lean  to  the  pillow 
And  the  hands  unfolded  lie  : 

Oh,  beautiful,  placid  angel, 
It  cannot  be  hard  to  die ! 


the 


WHITE  AND  RED. 

THE  grain  grows  in  at  my  window, 
The  rose-tree  bends  down  from  above ; 

One  bears  the  white  flower  of  my  Duty, 
And  the  other  is  crimson  with  Love. 

I  will  labor  all  day  in  my  grain-field ; 

In  the  glaring  and  dissonant  noon, 
I  will  look  for  no  tempting  tree-shadow, 

I  will  list  for  no  rivulet's  tune. 

I  will  watch — oh,  never  a  watcher 
At  the  cradle  of  innocent  sleep, 

Shall  be  faithful  as  I  will  be  faithful, 
My  little  field  safely  to  keep. 

How  my  sickle  shall  shine  at  the  harvest ! 

I  will  gather  and  garner  in  store, 
For  the  winter  that  cometh  so  early, 

The  winter  that  starveth  the  poor. 

But  oh !  when  each  work -day  is  ended, 
How  blessed  the  rest  I  shall  know ; 

How  the  tendrils  will  turn  to  caress  me, 
How  the  briers  will  wound  if  I  go ! 

I  shall  sit  with  my  roses — my  roses — 
And  draw  from  the  sweetness  of  years : 

They  will  crowd  their  cool  lips  to  my  fore 
head; 
I  shall  feel  in  the  dark  for  their  tears. 

I  shall  know  if  they  shiver  and  tremble, 
They  longed  for  my  coming  too  soon — 

For  my  pretty  ones  cannot  dissemble — 
And  a  cloud  had  come  over  the  moon. 

Lean  in,  tasseled  grain,  at  my  window ; 

Bend  downward,  sweet  rose,  from  above ; 
Clothe  my  life  with  the  whiteness  of  Duty, 

And  the  passionate  crimson  of  Love. 


GEORGE   YORK   WELBORN. 


GEORGE  YORK  WELBORN  was  born  in  Mount  Vernon,  Indiana,  April  twenty- 
ninth,  1827.  He  descended  from  a  respectable  family  of  North  Carolina,  which 
emigrated  to  the  West  during  the  war  of  1812.  His  father,  Jesse  York  Welborn, 
joined  the  army  of  the  South,  and,  after  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  settled  in  Mount 
Vernon,  where  he  long  continued  a  worthy  associate  of  the  sturdy  pioneers  who  im 
parted  vigor  and  manly  growth  to  the  early  settlement  of  the  West. 

At  an  early  age,  George  entered  the  common  school,  where  his  rapid  progress  won 
for  him  the  encomiums  of  his  teacher.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  we  find  him  a  student 
in  the  law  office  of  A.  P.  Hovey,  but  fearing  that  his  education  would  not  admit 
of  his  mastering  the  great  principles  of  the  legal  profession,  he  entered  the  semi 
nary  of  his  native  place,  preparatory  to  a  regular  course  in  college.  In  1849  he 
entered  the  freshman  class  of  Asbury  University,  at  Greencastle,  Indiana,  and  at  once 
took  rank  as  one  of  the  most  zealous  of  his  class,  and  maintained  by  his  excellence  of 
character  and  energy  of  purpose,  the  enviable  position  allotted  to  him  until  his  death. 
He  died  while  a  member  of  the  senior  class,  January  twenty-fifth,  1853,  aged  twenty- 
five  years. 

Had  he  lived  to  mature  manhood,  it  is  hazarding  but  little  to  say  that  he  would 
have  gained  distinction  among  men.  With  native  energy,  inherent  talent,  and  scho 
lastic  acquirements ;  vigorous  as  a  writer,  sprightly  in  conversation  and  winning  in 
manners ;  with  a  cheerful  disposition,  and  an  implicit  faith  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of 
the  right,  he  possessed  elements  that  fitted  him  to  win  upon  the  world's  favor.  While 
a  boy,  he  saw  beauty  in  the  sweet  fern  and  wild  thyme,  and  in  manhood  the  wayward- 
ings  of  the  butterfly  were  still  beautiful.  In  boyhood  he  was  filled  with  the  ideal, 
and  painted  the  canvas  all  over  with  radiant  pictures,  and  when  he  had  grown  to 
manhood,  the  ideal  was  united  with  the  real,  and  the  offspring  was  poetry.  In  col 
lege  he  was  loved  by  his  fellow-students.  In  their  expression  of  condolence,  they  say, 
"  we  mourn  the  loss  of  a  companion,  friend,  and  brother."  He  was  esteemed  by  his 
professors.  One  of  them  says,  in  a  letter :  "  The  name  of  George  York  Welborn  is 
associated  in  my  memory  with  all  that  is  manly,  and  noble,  and  good.  I  distinctly 
remember  what  taste  and  judgment  he  always  exhibited  in  rendering  the  Greek  and 
Latin  classics  into  English." 

Of  his  poetic  writings  we  have  but  a  single  remark  to  make.  The  manuscripts 
from  which  we  are  permitted  to  make  a  few  selections,  all  bear  dates  but  little  an 
terior  to  his  death,  which  indicate  that  the  spirit  of  song  had  but  recently  come  to 
him,  and  that  the  mantle  of  poesy  was  worthily  worn. 


(557) 


558 


GEORGE    Y.    WELBORN. 


[1850-60. 


THE  CAPTIVE  BOY. 

To  his  prison  window  creeping, 

See  that  lonely  captive  boy ; 
He  has  left  a  mother  weeping, 

Who  shall  know  no  future  joy ; 
But  in  sadder  melancholy, 

She  must  mourn  him  now  as  dead, 
Who  in  wild  and  wayward  tolly, 

To  the  battle-field  has  fled. 

Beams  of  golden  sunlight  streaming 

Through  the  grates  have  led  him  there ; 
While  his  eyes  with  sadness  beaming, 

Tell  his  spirit's  wild  despair. 
Lonely  weeks  and  months  have  bound  him 

Close  within  these  prison  cells ; 
How  disease  and  hunger  found  him, 

Faded  beauty  plainly  tells. 

Dark  brown  ringlets,  in  profusion, 

Cluster  round  his  marble  brow, 
"Which  were  erst  a  wild  intrusion, 

But  are  all  unheeded  now. 
He  is  dying,  slowly  dying, 

Soon  his  sorrows  will  be  o'er ; 
See  him  struggling,  wildly  trying 

To  look  out  on  earth  once  more. 

He  has  reached  that  spot,  and  gladness 

Brightens  up  his  pallid  face, 
Where  so  lately  brooding  sadness 

Left  of  beauty  not  a  trace. 
Hark !  he  speaks  like  one  whose  sorrow 

Human  suff'rance  had  surpassed, 
On  whose  soul  shall  dawn  no  morrow, 

But  with  death-shades  overcast : 

"  Oh,  thou  sun,  that  dost  awaken 

This  fair  morn,  oh  tell  me  why, 
I,  so  lonely  and  forsaken, 

Here  must  languish,  here  must  die  ? 
Tell  me,  for  thou  seest  clearly 

All  yon  world  of  cheerfulness, 
Does  my  mother,  loving  dearly, 

Mourn  my  fate  in  bitterness  ? 

"  Has  she  yet  my  crime  forgiven  ? 
Does  she  pray  in  tears  and  pain, 


That  her  son,  by  fondness  driven, 

May  return  to  her  again  ? 
Will  her  gentle  heart  be  broken 

With  the  saddest,  deepest  woe, 
When  these  words  are  kindly  spoken : 

'  Willie  sleeps  in  Mexico  ? ' 

No,  this  thought  will  soothe  each  other 

Which  may  thrill  her  heaving  breast, 
That  my  Saviour,  dearest  brother, 

Stooped  to  lull  my  soul's  unrest. 
To  my  heart-strings,  lone  and  riven 

By  the  sins  of  other  days, 
Harmony  he  now  has  given, 

And  attuned  to  sweeter  lays. 

God  protect  her,  strengthen,  teach  her, 

To  dispel  such  bitter  grief. 
Oh  my  mother,  loving  creature, 

Trust  in  Him,  he'll  give  relief; 
Could  I  see  thee,  know  thee  present, 

Could  I  hear  thy  soothing  voice, 
This  dark  prison  would  be  pleasant, 

And  in  death  I  could  rejoice. 

And  my  sister,  gentle  being ! 

Who  so  fondly  clung  to  me, 
Sobbing  wildly,  as  if  seeing 

My  unhappy  destiny. 
Dost  thou  mourn  me?  dost  thou  miss  me? 

Who  didst  plead  with  me  to  stay — 
Why  did  I  so  rudely  kiss  thee, 

Then  so  wildly  bound  away  ? 
Oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  lingers 

Round  my  lonely  prison  bed, 
And  I  feel  her  lovely  fingers 

Pressing  lightly  on  my  head. 
Oft  I  feel  her  fond  caresses, 

And  her  lips  on  mine  once  more ; 
But  awaking  'mid  distresses, 

All  my  visions  then  are  o'er. 

"  And  my  little  brother,  Charlie ! 

Who,  with  arms  about  me  twined, 
Held  me  till,  with  simple  parley, 

He  might  change  my  wayward  mind. 
Oh,  my  dear,  devoted  brother, 

Weep  no  more,  but  pity  me ! 


1850-60.] 


GEORGE    Y.    WELBORN. 


559 


Where  will  you  e'er  find  another 
Who  will  love  so  tenderly  ? 

"  All  these  lovely  scenes  are  over 

Naught  can  glad  my  heart  again, 
But  to  know  them,  I,  a  rover, 

Oft  have  hoped,  but  hoped  in  vain 
Death's  cold  hand  is  on  me,  mother, 

Sister  come,  my  lips  are  cold ! 
Come  still  closer,  closer  brother, 

Ere  on  life  I  lose  my  hold. 

"  See  yon  mountain's  brow  is  teeming 

With  the  legions  of  the  skies  ! 
Am  I  dying,  am  I  dreaming, 

Do  death's  shadows  dim  my  eyes  ? 
Hark  !  I  hear  the  bugle  thrilling — 

See  the  stars  and  stripes  in  air ! 
Lo  !  the  valley?  all  are  filling 

With  contending  armies  there. 

"  Rouse,  my  soul !  I  am  not  dying ; 

Shake  off  death.     Awake  !  awake ! 
List  the  death-shots  wildly  flying  ; 

The  contest  makes  my  prison  shake. 
Look,  oh  look  !  our  foes  retire — 

See  !  our  armies  sweep  the  plain ; 
They  are  coming,  coming  nigher — 

Soon  shall  I  be  free  again. 

"  They  are  here,  but  do  not  see  me ; 

See  them  madly  pressing  on — 
Stay,  my  comrades,  stay  and  free  me ! 

All  is  still ; — they're  gone,  they're  gone. 
Ah,  I'm  cold,  I'm  blind,  I  smother ; 

Death  is  in  my  gloomy  cell — 
Oh,  my  mother — sister — brother — 

Willie  dies — farewell,  farewell." 

Upward  to  those  shining  regions, 

Fitted  for  the  soul  above, 
He  has  gone,  and  angel-legions 

Now  escort  him  home  in  love. 
Freed  from  prison,  hunger,  sorrow — 

Loosened  from  this  dreary  sod — 
He  in  plentitude  shall  borrow 

Sweet  perfection  from  his  God. 


VOICE  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

How  oft  have  life's  unseen  events 

O'erturned  our  hopes  of  bliss, 
And  gathered  to  another  world 

The  friends  we  loved  in  this. 
And  even  now,  when  they  are  gone, 

Whom  fancy  oft  portrays, 
Upon  the  soul  there  seems  to  roll 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

We  love  to  join,  with  wild  delight, 

The  circles  of  the  young, 
And  yield  our  tribute  there  to  swell 

The  magic  of  the  tongue. 
But  ah  !  we  lose  our  mirthfulness, 

And  all  our  joy  decays, 
When  from  the  past  there  comes  at  last 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

W^e  love  to  labor — labor  here, 

We  love  toil — toil  on, 
For  so  did  they,  who  now  from  earth 

To  their  rewards  have  gone. 
Yet  oft  we  turn  aside  to  weep 

At  fate's  uncertain  ways, 
When  o'er  us  comes,  like  muffled  drums, 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

Our  friends  prove  false  and  oft  we  feel 

Desponding  and  alone, 
When  not  a  kindred  spirit  gives 

The  smile  we  love  to  own. 
But  ever  thus,  when  we  are  sad, 

And  gloom  around  us  plays, 
To  cheer  us  then,  there  comes  again 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 

How  cold  this  world  to  us  appears, 

When  no  sweet  voice  is  heard, 
To  claim  our  triumphs  and  to  speak 

A  kind  approving  word  ? 
But  ah !  when  all  we  are  below 

Stern  Death  in  ruin  lays, 
We'll  hear  once  more,  as  oft  of  yore, 

The  Voice  of  Other  Days. 


LOUISE  ESTHER  VICEROY 


LOUISE  ESTHER  VICKROY,  daughter  of  Edwin  A.  and  Cornelia  H.  Vickroy,  was 
bora  at  Urbana,  Ohio,  January  second,  1827.  While  Louise  was  yet  a  little  child, 
the  family  migrated  to  Fern  Dale,  Columbia  county,  Pennsylvania,  where  they  yet 
reside.  Being  one  of  twelve  children,  and  her  parents  not  affluent,  she  yet  availed 
herself  so  well  of  her  share  of  the  means  of  improvement,  as  to  have  become  an 
excellent  scholar ;  and  made  such  familiars  of  the  beauties  and  sublimities  of  nature 
about  her,  as  to  have  strengthened  and  greatened  her  spirit  to  a  high  capability.  Her 
mind  has  had  a  healthy  growth  among  the  wild  and  romantic  scenery  of  western 
Pennsylvania.  There  is  a  feel  of  mountains  in  it,  and  a  smack  of  forest  streams.  It 
impresses  you  with  a  sense  of  reserved  power,  sufficient  for  much  more  than  it  has 
yet  achieved.  Her  genius  is  manifestly  cultivable  and  improvable.  It  grows.  She 
has  been  writing  now  only  about  eight  years,  it  is  true ;  but  most  of  our  poetesses 
weep  all  "  the  dews  of  Castalie "  away  in  less  time — or  get  married :  she  has  done 
neither.  But  she  has  continually  developed  in  the  art  of  expression,  and  her  latest 
productions  are  her  best.  "The  Spirit  Home"  and  "Shadow-Light,"  her  most  recent 
publications,  in  the  articles  of  choice  rhetoric,  delicious  rhythm,  and  dainty  imagina 
tion,  surpass  any  thing  else  we  have  seen  from  her  pen,  and  are  symptomatic  of  the 
fever  of  genius.  But  poetry  with  her  is  evidently  an  art,  and  not  a  woman's  passion. 
Not  that  she  is  an  unexpert  in  love,  by  any  means;  but  that  she  can  see  other  divinities 
than  Venus  on  the  mount,  Parnassus.  She  cultivates  poetry  as  one  of  the  liberal 
studies — one  of  the  humanities ;  and  does  not  seem  to  regard  it  as  the  mere  spontane 
ous  combustion  of  a  love-lorn  heart.  Indeed,  she  gives  lectures  on  "Poetry  and 
Poets,"  and  proves  that  she  knows  how  to  analyze  thoughts  and  criticise  thinkers. 

Miss  Vickroy's  present  home  is  Richmond,  Indiana.  Her  profession  has  been  that 
most  noble  and  womanly  one  of  teacher;  but  more  recently,  as  just  intimated,  she  has 
adopted  that  of  lecturer,  in  which  she  is  said  to  excel.  We  think  we  can  confidently 
predict  for  her  poetic  future,  excelsior. 


THE  SPIRIT  HOME. 

I  THOUGHT,  I  knew  not  if  awake  or  sleeping, 
I  saw  the  spirit-home  prepared  for  me; 

In  a  deep  forest  of  majestic  palm-trees 
It  rose  ;  no  artist's  dream  of  ecstasy 


Might  ever  picture  what  its  fair  propor 
tions 
And  beauteous  adjuncts  were,  nor  may 

I  tell 

In  mortal  words  of  its  soft  flowing  waters, 
Its  lilies  pure,  its  wreaths  of  asphodel. 


(560) 


1850-60.] 


LOUISE    ESTHER    VICKROY. 


561 


And  all  bright  flowers  that  bloomed  about 

its  pathways, 
With  dew  and  sunlight  garnishing  their 

bloom, 
And  gentle  winds,  that  sighed,  and  laughed, 

and  lingered 
Amid  the  incense  of  its  sweet  perfume. 

And  through  bright  bowers  lovely  birds 

went  singing, 
And  built  about  the  nests  with  sweet 

home  love ; 

And  butterflies  sailed  by  on  painted  pinions, 
Creatures  the  earth's  fair  creatures  far 
above. 

But  oh,  my  home  within  this  world  of  rap 
ture  ! 

My  home,  was  it  a  palace  or  a  cot? 
I  may  not  say  ;  I  know  there  was  no  beauty, 

No  charm,  no  luxury  that  it  had  not. 

The  walls   were    crystal,  and   the    floors 

seemed  marble, 

Yet  soft  as  rose-leaves  where  my  foot 
steps  fell ; 
Its    lattice   curtains  were   bright   braided 

sunbeams ; 
Its  rafters  overhead — 0,  strange  to  tell ! — 

Were  golden  wires,  through  which,  with 
gentle  swaying, 

Came  ever  new  and  thrilling  melodies, 
Now  lulling  to  repose,  and  now  impelling 

The  spirit  dreams  to  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise, 

Far  o'er  that  world  of  most  supernal  beauty, 
Into  the  airy  regions  still  above, 

E'en  to  the  glory  of  the  heaven  of  heavens ; 
Then  nestled  softly  near,  like  sighs  of  love. 

A  canopy  of  azure  arched  it  over, 

Where  silvery  stars  and  one  pale  crescent 

gleamed, 
Sending  the   charm  of  night,   without  its 

horror, 

To    the     subduing     light    that   inward 
streamed. 


Then  voices  soft  were  whispering  gently  to 

me: 
"Thy  better  angels  planned  this  home 

for  thee 

When  thou  didst  listen  to  their  holy  teach 
ings, 

And  nobly  walk  the  ways  they  beckoned 
thee. 

And  ever  as  some  new  truth  thrills  thy 

bosom, 
Or  when  thy  hands   some   gentle   deed 

shall  do, 
Some  fairer  flower  here  for  thee  will  blos 


som, 
)me 
added  to. 


Some    brighter    charm    will   these   be 


And  when  thou  walkest  Learning's  paths 

unfaltering, 
A  softer  light  shall  round  these  walls  be 

flung, 
Some  niche  receive  a  yet  more  beauteous 

statue, 

Some    fairer   painting   on  the  walls  be 
hung." 

The  whitest  angel  hands  with  mine  were 

clasping, 
And  angel  faces  smiled  sweet  smiles  on 

me; 
When  harsh  and  sudden  came  an  earthly 

summons, 
That  called  me  thence  but  for  Eternity. 

That  home  is  mine  where  nevermore  for 
ever 

Can  any  voice  my  spirit  back  recall ; 
Nor   discord     follow    there,   nor    shadow 

darken, 
Nor  frost  nor  mildew  on  its  flowers  fall. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  'twas  only  Fancy's  vision; 

I  will  believe  my  Father's  angels  fair 
Build  such  bright  mansions  for  the  earth- 
worn  pilgrim  ; 

I  will  believe  such  home  awaits  me  there. 


36 


562 


LOUISE    ESTHER    VICKROY. 


[1850-60. 


THE  SUMMER  STORM. 

WHEN  the  sky's  deep  blue  grew  deeper, 
And  the  sickle  of  the  reaper, 
Swinging    midst   the  ripened  wheat-ears, 

made  a  pleasant  flash  and  sound, 
Rose  a  cloud  that  soon  o'ershaded 
All  the  scene,  while  quickly  faded 
From  the  landscape  all  the  beauty  by  the 
sunshine  shed  around. 

Queenly  rose  and  lily  saintly 
First  began  to  waver  faintly, 
And  the  trembling  oak-leaves  whispered  of 

the  tempest  drawing  near; 
While  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  river 
Sent  through  every  heart  a  shiver, 
For  all  nature  seemed  o'erburdened  with  a 
wonder  and  a  fear. 

Then  the  lightning's  vivid  flashes, 
With  the  thunder's  wilder  crashes, 
In  a  strange,  terrific  splendor  clothed  the 

overarching  sky ; 

Shrank  the  woodbine  in  her  bower, 
And  the  fern  bent  low  and  lower, 
While  the  vine-leaves  clasped  each  other 
with  a  clinging  sympathy. 

Now  the  winds  with  dismal  howling, 
And  the  heaven's  darker  scowling, 
For  a  while  seemed  all  too  dreadful  for  the 

startled  earth  to  bear; 
Then,  while  floods  of  rain  descended, 
Proudest  trees  were  torn  and  bended, 
Till  the  woods  bore  fearful  tokens  how  the 
dread  one  reveled  there. 

But  the  storm-clouds'  sudden  breaking, 
All  the  wild-bird  anthems  waking, 
Set  the   summer  air  to  trembling  with  a 

sweetly  conscious  thrill ; 
While  the  snowy  mist  up-going, 
And  the  sunny  light  down-flowing, 
Met  and  made  a  rainbow  chaplet  for  the 
dark  brow  of  the  hill. 


And  the  sunset  on  that  even 
Seemed  the  golden  gate  of  heaven, 
All  so  cloudless   and  so  lovely,  when  the 

storm  had  passed  away ; 
So  the  tempests  in  our  bosoms, 
Beating  down  Life's  fairest  blossoms, 
Sometimes  make  our  hearts  more  fitted  to 
receive  a  heavenly  ray. 


SHADOW-LIGHT. 

As  faint  as  the  ghost  of  a  melody, 
Or  a  rose's  breath  that  will  not  die, 
Though  its  petals  blighted  and  withered  lie ; 
Seeming  afar  like  the  worlds  of  light, 
Yet  near  as  their  beams  on  a  soft,  clear  night, 
And  sweet  as  the  smile  of  a  lost  delight. 

Not  bright  like  the  hopes  of  our  childhood's 

hours, 
Nor  wearing  the   colors  of  youth's  fresh 

flowers, 
Nor    the    rose-hued    tintings  of    air-built 

towers ; 

And  never  so  sad  as  the  memory 
Of  the  young  heart's  buried  dreams  may  be, 
But  softer  and  sweeter  there  comes  to  me ; 

There  comes — there  comes  to  my  spirit  now 
A  wordless  whisper,  and  o'er  my  brow 
Steals  a  soft  caress,  but  1  know  not  how, 
Or  whence,  or  why,  but  I  only  say 
That  somewhere,  somewhere,  though  far 

away, 
"A  dear  one  is  dreaming  of  me  to-day." 

It  may  be  one  I  have  never  seen, 
Or  one  with  whom  I  have  often  been, 
But  wide  is  the  ocean  that  yawns  between  ; 
But  at  last,  with  the  ocean's  ebb  and  flow, 
That  spirit  will  come  or  mine  will  go, 
We  will  be  together  for  aye,  I  know. 


CAROLINE    MYER. 


ONE  of  the  schoolmistresses  of  Ohio,  who  should  hold  a  creditable  place  among 
the  poets  of  the  West,  is  Caroline  Myer,  of  Waynesville,  Warren  county.  She  was 
born  near  Waynesville,  on  the  seventh  of  January,  1827.  Her  father,  in  early  life 
a  school-teacher,  but  in  middle  age  a  farmer,  lives  now  at  the  old  homestead.  With 
out  opportunities  for  education  higher  or  more  liberal  than  could  be  afforded  her  at  a 
district  school,  Miss  Myer  determined  to  become  a  teacher.  Indefatigable  industry, 
the  outgrowth  of  an  intelligent,  healthful  and  resolute  spirit,  has  enabled  her  to 
acquire  a  valuable  reputation  as  a  schoolmistress,  and,  meantime,  to  contribute  poems 
to  the  leading  literary  papers  and  periodicals  of  the  West,  which  have  made  her  name 
agreeably  familiar  in  many  hundreds  of  homes. 


THE  SHADOW-LAND  OP  THE  HEART. 

OUT-LOOKING  to  the  "  great  To  Be," 
Upon  a  care-wrought  wall  we  stand ; 

Yet  oft  we  leave  Reality 

To  wander  in  this  Shadow-Land. 

Sweet  fays  and  specters  grirn  abide — 
Here  ever  dwells  a  mystic  band ; 

And  O  !  what  mocking  phantoms  glide 
Above  the  heart's  weird  Shadow-Land  ! 

The  shadows  strange !  some  burn  or  freeze 
The  blasted  soul  with  deadly  blight — 

Some  soothe  like  pleasant  shade  of  trees, 
When  noonday  beams  are  fiercely  bright. 

We  rove  throughout  the  lengthened  range, 
And  many  a  seraph  form  upstarts ; 

Like  lightning  swift  their  places  change, 
Yet  not  one  shadow  e'er  departs. 

Here — there — the  same !  they  fall  again 

When  Morning's  lily  lids  are  wet 
With  tears  the  Night  has  wept — and  when 


Young  Even's  robe  with  gems  is  set. 


Love  waves  o'er  all  his  magic  wand — 
Hate  holds  a  cursed  dominion  here — 

Arid  Sorrow  stalks  with  muffled  band 
Upon  the  hurried  steps  of  Fear. 

Each  youthful  Hope  is  imaged  fair, 

Each  dark-browed  Doubt  in  sullen  guise, 

And  darker  still,  each  mute  Despair 
That  ever  closed  dull,  leaden  eyes. 

Cold  mists  around  this  Shadow-Land 

Are  rank  with  Guilt's  own  poison  breath, 
And  sweetest  airs  that  ever  fanned 

A  saintly  brow  in  joyous  death, 
Blow  over  green  ambrosial  isles  ; 

Arid  hoarse,  sepulchral  voices  shake 
The  mounts  where  golden  sunshine  smiles, 

And  music-tones  wild  raptures  wake ! 

And  noble  deeds  and  lofty  thought 
Are  burning  here  on  azure  scroll ; 

The  hero  sees  what  once  he  wrought, 
While  I  repass  the  distant  goal, 

Which  steady  chained  my  ardent  gaze, 
When  pure,  un mingled  joy  was  mine  ! 


(  563  ) 


5G4 


CAROLINE    MYER. 


[1850-60. 


Still  here  the  Unattained  doth  blaze ! 
Ah !  here  the  Never  Won  may  shine ! 

These  shadows  once  were  real  things — 
These   phantoms    strange   were   living 
forms ; 

These  floating  shapes,  with  airy  wings, 
Once  battled  with  the  thunder-storms ! 

When  far  beyond  the  fiery  track 

Of  orbs  immense,  entranced  we  soar, 

0  !  will  the  spirit  wander  back 

To  walk  again  the  phantom  shore  ? 

Oh  !  bright  and  haunted  picture  land  ! 

Oh,  dreams  of  eld !    Oh,  visions  blessed ! 
What  wizard  king,  with  heavy  hand, 

Hath  laid  this  spell  of  wild  unrest  ? 

Sad  Shadow-land !  I  visit  thee, 

And  long,  in  many  a  pensive  hour, 
As  prisoned  captive,  to  be  free 

To  rise  above  the  futile  power 
Of  words  and  songs  of  mortal  birth; 

For  vain  my  striving  to  invest 
Expression — else  of  little  worth — 

With  aught  of  that  which  thrills  my 

breast, 
When  wand'ring  in  this  cypress  shade, 

Or  standing  on  yon  sunny  shore, 

1  list  the  low,  sweet  music  played 

By  hands  whose  earthly  toil  is  o'er. 


UP  AND  DOWN  THE  HILL. 

A  LITTLE  work — a  little  play — 
A  loitering  oft  along  the  way — 
This  is  the  sum  and  substance  still 
Of  going  up  and  down  the  hill. 

And  yet  'tis  more  than  fleeting  dream, 
Or  idle  poet's  silly  theme — 


Or  blending  of  the  sea  and  rill — 
This  going  up  and  down  the  hill. 

That  group  with  garlands  on  their  heads — 
Oh,  what  a  glory  round  them  spreads ! 
Their  cheeks  are  bright,  their  pulses  thrill, 
For  they  are  going  up  the  hill. 

And  shall  the  stormy  cloud  that  lowers, 
Make  them  forget  the  stars  and  flowers  ? 
Is  change,  and  blight,  and  darkness  still 
The  end  of  going  up  the  hill  ? 

But  some  now  lying  in  the  shade, 
With  myrtle  on  their  pale  brows  laid, 
E'en    while    they   heard    the   song-bird's 

trill, 
Grew  tired  of  going  up  the  hill. 

Alas,  for  lips  so  strange  and  cold ! 
Alas,  for  hearts  so  early  old  ! 
That  eyes  are  stern,  and  voices  shrill ! 
'Tis  dreary  going  down  the  hill. 

But  here  the  sunbeams'  softened  sheen 
Falls  o'er  a  band  with  looks  serene, 
And  hope  and  faith  their  spirits  fill, 
Though  they  are  going  down  the  hill. 

And  here  is  one  who  walks  aside 
From  all  the  crimson  glare  of  pride  ; 
Her  pathway  leads  through  shadows  chill, 
For  she  is  going  down  the  hill. 

The  rosy  days  have  long  passed  by, 
Yet  joy  is  hers  that  cannot  die  ; 
Love  is  her  speech — love  is  her  will, 
Though  she  is  going  down  the  hill. 

Oh,  may  the  angels  ever  smile, 

And  soft  sweet  sounds  our  souls  beguile 

Into  the  valley  dark  and  still — 

The  end  of  going  down  the  hill. 


WILLIAM   H.  LYTLE. 


WILLIAM  H.  LYTLE  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  about  the  year  1828,  of  an  old  and 
much  respected  American  family.  His  great  grandfather,  William  Lytle,  held  a  cap 
tain's  commission  in  the  Pennsylvania  line  during  the  old  French  war,  and  emigrated 
to  Kentucky  in  the  year  1779.  His  grandfather,  William  Lytle,  was  famous  in  the 
early  border  warfare  of  the  West,  and  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  distinguished 
pioneers  of  Ohio.  He  was  the  intimate,  personal  friend  of  Andrew  Jackson,  under 
whom,  when  President,  he  held  the  office  of  Surveyor  General  of  Public  Lands. 

Robert  T.  Lytle,  the  father  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  was,  for  many  years,  a 
very  influential  politician.  He  represented  the  Cincinnati  district  in  Congress,  and 
was  long  the  favorite  orator  of  the  Democracy  of  south-western  Ohio.  His  only  son, 
William,  was  educated  in  the  West,  and  his  fine  abilities  as  a  thinker,  speaker  and 
writer,  were  early  the  subject  of  remark.  After  the  completion  of  his  scholastic 
education,  he  studied  law  in  the  office  of  his  uncle,  E.  S.  Haines.  Upon  the  breaking 
out  of  the  Mexican  war,  the  military  spirit  which  had  distinguished  his  family,  showed 
itself  in  him.  He  volunteered,  was  elected  captain  of  company  L,  second  Regiment 
of  Ohio  Volunteers,  commanded  by  Colonel  Irvin  of  Lancaster,  and  served  with  dis 
tinction  during  the  war.  While  in  Mexico,  he  wrote  some  letters  which  were  much 
admired  for  their  poetic  tone  and  beautiful  description  of  tropical  scenery.  At  the 
close  of  the  war  he  returned  to  the  practice  of  the  law,  but  was  soon  elected  a  mem 
ber  of  the  first  Ohio  Legislature  under  the  present  Constitution  of  that  State.  He 
did  not  speak  often  in  that  body,  but  when  he  did  address  the  House,  he  commanded 
its  attention  by  a  strain  of  eloquence  and  argument  not  quite  so  common  in  this  coun 
try  as  some  people  suppose.  In  1857  he  was  nominated  to  the  office  of  Lieutenant 
Governor  by  the  Democratic  party  of  Ohio.  The  ticket  was  beaten  by  a  few  hun 
dred  votes.  He  was  afterward  elected  Major  General  of  the  First  Division  of  the 
Ohio  Militia,  embracing  within  its  limits  the  city  of  Cincinnati.  This  was  a  deserved 
honor,  for  in  disposition  and  bearing  he  is  the  beau  ideal  of  a  citizen  soldier ;  yet,  con 
sidering  the  force  and  beauty  with  which  he  writes,  his  friends  are  constrained  to  think, 
that  even  in  his  soldierly  hands  "the  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword." 

From  the  poems  contributed  for  this  volume,  four  have  been  selected,  which  are 
now  first  published — "Sailing  on  the  Sea,"  "The  Brigand's  Song,"  "Jacqueline,"  and 
**  Macdonald's  Drummer." 


(  565  ) 


5G6 


WILLIAM    H.   LYTLE. 


[lb50-(,U. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying, 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast ; 
Let  thine  arm.  oh  Queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear, 
Listen  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low  ; 
'Twas  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow — 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her;  say  the  gods  bear  witness, 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings, 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  thrones  of  kings. 

And  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian  I 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile, 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile ; 
Give  the  Ca3sar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine, 
I  can  scorn  the  senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 


I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Hark !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry, 
They  are  coming;  quick,  my  falchion, 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah,  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell, 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee, 

Cleopatra,  Rome,  farewell ! 


MACDONALD'S  DRUMMER.* 

A  DRUMMER-BOY  from  fair  Bayonne, 

By  love  of  glory  lured, 
With  bold  Macdonald's  stern  array, 

The  pains  of  war  endured. 
And  now  amid  those  dizzy  heights, 

That  girt  the  Splugen  dread, 
The  silent  columns  struggled  on, 

And  he  marched  at  their  head. 

Then  in  those  regions,  cold  and  dim, 

With  endless  winter  curs'd, 
The  Alpine  storm  arose,  and  scowled, 

And  forth  in  fury  burst — 
Burst  forth  on  the  devoted  ranks, 

Ambition's  dauntless  brood, 
That  thus  with  sword  and  lance  profaned 

Old  Winter's  solitude. 

"  Down  !  down  !  upon  your  faces  fall ; 

Cling  to  the  guns !  for  lo, 
The  chamois  on  this  slippery  track 

Would  dread  yon  gulf  below;" 
So  sped  the  word  from  front  to  rear, 

And  veterans  to  the  storm 
Bowed  low,  who  ne'er  in  battle  bowed 

To  aught  in  foeman's  form. 

But  hark !  what  horror  swells  the  gale — 
Beware,  oh  sons  of  France ! 


*  See  Headley's  account  of  the  passage  of  the  Splugen, 
by  Marshal  Macdonald. 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    H.    L  YTLE. 


567 


Beware  the  avalanche  whose  home 
Is  'mid  these  mountain  haunts. 

Yon  distant  thunder — 'tis  its  voice ! 
The  bravest  held  his  breath, 

And  silently  a  prayer  put  up 
To  die  a  soldier's  death. 

And  near  and  nearer  with  a  roar, 

That  loud  and  louder  swelled, 
The  avalanche  down  glaciers  broad, 

Its  lightning  pathway  held  ; 
And  through  the  shivering  ranks  it  crashed, 

And  then  with  one  vast  stride, 
Swept  down  the  gulf,  till  far  below 

Its  muttering  thunders  died. 

In  vain  Italia's  sunny  plains 

And  reeling  vines  invite, 
Full  many  a  soldier  found  his  shroud, 

'Mid  Alpine  snows  that  night ; 
And  he,  his  comrades'  pride  and  boast, 

The  lad  from  fair  Bayonne  ; 
The  roll  was  called,  no  voice  replied, 

The  drummer-boy  was  gone. 

Gone !  gone !  but  hark  from  the  abyss, 

What  sounds  so  faintly  come, 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm  ? 

It  is — it  is — the  drum  ; 
He  lives,  he  beats  for  aid,  he  sounds 

The  old  familiar  call, 
That  to  the  batteries'  smoking  throat 

Had  brought  his  comrades  all. 

Over  the  dizzy  verge  that  eve, 
With  straining  eyes  they  peered, 

And  heard  the  rattling  of  the  drum, 
In  accents  strange  and  weird; 

The  notes  would  cease,  and  then  again 
Would  sound — again  to  fail, 

Until  no  more  their  fainting  moan 

Came  wafted  on  the  gale. 

/ 

And  when  red  Wagram's  fight  was  fought, 

And  the  big  war  was  o'er, 
A  dark -haired  matron  in  Bayonne 

Stood  watching  by  her  door ; 


Stood  watching,  praying,  many  an  hour, 
Till  hair  and  heart  grew  gray, 

For  the  bright-eyed  boy  who,  'mid  the  Alps, 
Was  sleeping  far  away. 

And  still  belated  peasants  tell, 

How,  near  that  Alpine  height, 
They  hear  a  drum  roll  loud  and  clear, 

On  many  a  storm-vexed  night. 
This  story  of  the  olden  time 

With  sad  eyes  they  repeat, 
And  whisper  by  whose  ghostly  hands 

The  spirit-drum  is  beat. 


THE  VOLUNTEERS. 

THE  Volunteers  !  the  Volunteers  ! 
I  dream,  as  in  the  by-gone  years, 
I  hear  again  their  stirring  cheers, 

And  see  their  banners  shine, 
What  time  the  yet  unconquered  North 
Poured  to  the  wars  her  legions  forth, 
For  many  a  wrong  to  strike  a  blow 
With  mailed  hand  at  Mexico. 

The  Volunteers!  ah,  where  are  they 
Who  bade  the  hostile  surges  stay, 
When  the  black  forts  of  Monterey 
Frowned  on  their  dauntless  line  ; 
When  undismayed  amid  the  shock 
Of  war,  like  Cerro  Gordo's  rock, 
They  stood,  or  rushed  more  madly  on, 
Than  tropic  tempest  o'er  San  Juan. 

On  Angostura's  crowded  field, 

Their  shattered  columns  scorned  to  yield, 

And  wildly  yet  defiance  pealed 

Their  flashing  batteries'  throats  ; 
And  echoed  then  the  rifle's  crack, 
As  deadly  as  when  on  the  track 
Of  flying  foe,  of  yore,  its  voice 
Bade  Orleans'  dark-eyed  girls  rejoice. 


NY  I  M.I  AM     II.    LYTLK. 


[I860  »;o. 


Hlent  with  the  roar  of  guns  and  bombs, 
How  grandly  from  the  dim  past  comes 
The  roll  of  llu-ir  victorious  dnnns. 

Their  bugles'  joyous   notes, 
When  over  Mexico's  proud  towers. 
And  the  fair  \  alley's  storied  bowers. 
Fit  recompense  of  toil  and  scars, 
In  triumph  wa\ed  their  llag  of  stars. 

Ah,  comrades,  of  your  o\vn  tried    troop. 
Whose  honor  ne'er  to  shame  might  stoop, 
Of  lion  heart,  and  eagle  swoop. 

Hut  you  aloue  remain  ; 
On  all  the  rest  has  fallen  the  hush 
Of  death;   the  men  whose  battle  rush 
Was  wild  as  sun-loosed  torrent.^  llow 
From  Ori. -.aba's  crest  of  snow. 

The  Volunteers!   the  Volunteers! 

(lod  send  us  peace,  through  all  our  years; 

l>ut  if  the  cloud  of  war  appears, 

We'll  see  them  once  au,ain. 
From  broad  Ohio's  peaceful  side, 
From  where  the  Maumee   pours  its  tide  ; 
From  storm-lashed  Frie's  wint'ry  shore. 
Shall  spring  the  Volunteers  once  more. 


r  vi  i    peak,  afar 

(Jilds  thy  white  pinnacle,  a  single  star, 
AY  bile  sharply  on    the  deep   blue    sky    thy 


In  deathlike  calm  repose. 

The  nightingale 
Through    ••  Mira  Flores  "  bowers    repeats 

her  tale. 

And  eyery  ro-e  its  perfumed  eenser  swings 
With  ve.-per  otVerings. 

l>ut  not  for  thee, 
Diademed  king,  thi>  loye-born  minstrelsy. 


Nor  yet  the  tropic  gales  that  gently  blow 
Through  these  blessed  \ales  below. 

Around   thy  form 
Hover    the    mid-air    fiends,   the     lightning 

warm. 

Thunder,  and  by  the  driving  hurricane 
In  wrecks  thy  pines  are  lain. 

Peep  in  thv  heart 

Burn  on  vast  tires,  struggling  to  rend  apart 
Their   prison  walls,  and    then    in  wrath  be 

hurled 
lUa/iug  upon  the  world. 

In  vain  conspire 

Against  thy  majesty   tempests  and  lire; 
The  elemental  wars  of  madness  born, 
Serene,  thou  laughVt  to  scorn. 

Calm  art    thou  now 

As  when  the  A/tec,  on  thine  awful  brow, 
(Ja/.ed  on  some  eve  like  this  from  Oialco's 

shore, 
Where  lives  his  name  no  more. 

And  thou  hast   seen 

(ilitter  in  dark  defiles,  the  ominous  sheen 
Of  lances,  and  hast  heard  the  battle-cry 
Of  (Wile's  chivalry. 

And  yet  again 
Hast    seen    strange    banners    steering    o'er 

the  main. 
When    from   his  eyrie  soared   to   eoiujnest 

forth, 
The  eagle  of  the  North. 

Yet,  at  thy  feet, 

While  rolling  on,  the  tides  of  empire  beat, 
Thou  art,  oh  mountain,  on  thy  world-piled 

throne, 
Of  all.  unchanged  alone. 

Type  of  a  power 
Supreme,  thy  solemn  silence  at  this  hour 


1850  i 


WILL}  AM    11.   LYTLB, 


Speaks     to     111.-     nations     of  tin      A  lmi:-lil  \ 

\V,,nl 
Which  at.  thy  birth  was  stirred. 

1'rophef  sublime  ! 
Wide  on  tin-  iiKH-nin^'s  win;.'-  will  lloal  tin 

ehime 

Of  martial    horn-,  ;   yet    'mid    the    din,  lh\ 

spell 
Shall  sway  mo,  Htill — farewell. 


IJRKiAND'8  SONG. 

TIIKOI  <;n  Ihe  SleiTft1     wild  ravine 

An  old  j/randee  of  Spain 
Is  passing  with  hi    darl.  eyed  tfirlH, 

And  all  hi     gOFgeOU     irain  ; 
The  spoil  is  rich,  the  ..iiard  i  ,  weak, 

The  way  is  ron^h  and  Ion-, 
So  bathe  your  lip,  in    foaming  wine, 
And  ehanl    your    parli'i;'  .  on;.'. 
I  )rink,  brothers,  drink. 

I  )rink,  men,  and  away  ; 
Adieu,     enora   ,  in  your     mile  . 
We'll  I,,   I.    befim  the  day. 

The  moon  i     in  the  a/ure  -kies, 

The  stars  are  by  her  :  ide, 
They  glitter  in  her  path  of  liyhl, 

Like  maid-  around  a  bride; 
Like  nij/hl  l»inls  let  us  sally  forth, 

Where   booty  may  he  won  ; 
So  whet  the  poniard's  polished  ed;/e, 
And  i_'ird    youi-  carhine.-.  on. 
Arm,  hrolhei--,  ;uni, 

A  I'm,  IIK-II,  and    away  ; 
Adieu,  -enora  ,  in    your     mile 

We'll  i,,.,.k  before  the  ,j:iy. 

All   hail  to  ni^hf  ;    lor     inee  the,  world 
W:i     madi-,  in    lime-,  of  old, 

The  d;iy  |,;ls  |,een  loreoward  knavcH, 
The  ni^'hl  time  foi-  the  hold  ; 

Hark  !   to  the  mule  |,,.|l,'  di-.lanl.  ehime, 
Our  lad),  ;'ranl  a.   hoon, 


Tli:il  ere  ;m  hour  the  rinjr  of 

May  drown   lln-ir  jim-lin;-   lime. 
Mount,  hrolhers,  mount, 

Mount,  men,  and  away; 
Adi'-u,     enoras,  in  your  smile 

\\  e'll    I);,    k    l.eloie    (he   d;ty. 

To  dor  e  !       Hurra       wit  I.  thundering  prCS§ 

Over    the    plain     Ue    ;.|n|e, 

Around  the  .^larlled  hamlet's  i-«|»r 

And   up  the  n  oiinlain     ide  ; 
With   wavin;-  j.lunie     and  clankin;-     pur  , 

We  .weep  alon;-   like  wind  ; 
Our  heaeon  on   ihe  rn;--ed  ehll' 
I-   llamin;'    far  behind. 
K'ide,  brother  ,  ride, 

K'.ide,  men,  ;,nd   away  ; 
Adieu,     enoias,  in   your  smiles 
We'll  ba.  k   before,  l.he  day. 


SAILING;  ON  TIM,  .  i  \ 


u  Wiii,i:l.  i  .  my  he.-.il'     de;in-  I, 

Whe,e    CM]    he    be  >  " 

"  In   hi      (all      hip,    .Mar;'uerile, 

Sailing  on   the     M  ; 
Sailing  wilh  a  gallant  erew, 

U'ind     a  blou  in"  liee  "  — 
"Ah!    he  vowed  he     oon   would  eom»! 

I  lome,  to  wed   with  me  .'  " 

u  Should  he    ne\er,  Alar-uerite, 

(  ouje  |(;,,-k   to  Ihee, 
You  can   find  another  love.  — 

I  your  love  will  be  ; 
Then  far  away  lo  Indian  i-le-i 

I.el     II      (jlliekly    llee, 

I'ine  no  moj-e  lor  truant    hea/-|  • 
Sailing  on    lh< 

I'  la  bed  hej-  eye-  in   an-er, 

I'roudly   turned     In- 
I''rom  the  muflled  eavalier, 
-  on   hi     knee. 


570 


WILLIAM    H.    LYTLE. 


[1850-GO. 


But  away  his  cloak  he  flung, 
'"Marguerite,"  cried  he, — 

'Twas  her  lover  !  whom  she  thought 
Sailing  on  the  sea. 


ANACREONTIC. 

NAY,  frown  not  fairest,  chide  no  more, 

Nor  blame  the  blushing  wine; 
Its  fiery  kiss  is  innocent, 

When  thrills  the  pulse  with  thine. 
So  leave  the  goblet  in  my  hand, 

But  vail  thy  glances  bright, 
Lest  wine  and  beauty  mingling 

Should  wreck  my  soul  to-night. 

Then,  Ida,  to  the  ancient  rim 

In  sculptured  beauty  rare, 
Bow  down  thy  red-arched  lip  and  quaff 

The  wine  that  conquers  care ; 
Or  breathe  upon  the  shining  cup 

Till  that  its  perfume  be 
Sweet  as  the  scent  of  orange  groves, 

Upon  some  tropic  sea. 

And  while  thy  fingers  idly  stray, 

In  dalliance  o'er  the  lyre, 
Sing  to  me,  love,  some  rare  old  song 

That  gushed  from  heart  of  fire — 
Song,  such  as  Grecian  phalanx  hymned, 

When  freedom's  field  was  won, 
And  Persia's  glory  with  the  light 

Faded  at  Marathon. 

Sing  till  the  shouts  of  armed  men 

Ring  bravely  out  once  more ; 
Sing  till  again  the  ghost-white  tents 

Shine  on  the  moonlit  shore  ; 
Bid  from  their  melancholy  graves 

The  buried  hopes  to  start, 
I  knew  ere  many  a  storm  had  swept 

The  dew-drops  from  my  heart. 

Sing  the  deep  memories  of  the  past, 
My  soul  shall  follow  thee, 


Its  boundless  depths  re-echoing 

Thy  glorious  minstrelsy ; 
And  as  the  wild  vibrations  hang 

Enfettered  on  the  air, 
I'll  drink,  thy  white  arms  round  me,  love, 

The  wine  that  conquers  care. 


JACQUELINE.* 

ALMOND-EYED  Jacqueline  beckoned  to  me, 
As  our  troop  rode  home  from  mounting 

guard, 

And  I  saw  Gil  Perez's  brow  grow  dark, 
While  his  face  seemed  longer,  by  half  a 

yard. 

What  care  I  for  the  Spaniard's  ire, 
His  haughty  lip  and  glance  of  fire ; 
What  so  fit  for  these  Southern  lords 
As  the  tempered  edges  of  freemen's  swords  ? 

Say,  shall  an  Alva's  merciless  bands 
Their  hands  in  our  noblest  blood  imbrue, 

And  then  with  accursed  foreign  wiles 
Our  gentle  Northern  girls  pursue  ? 

Hail  to  him  who  for  freedom  strikes ! 

Up  with  your  banners  and  down  with  the 
dykes ! 

Better  be  whelmed  'neath  ocean  waves, 

Than  live  like  cowards  the  lives  of  slaves. 

Haughty  Gil  Perez  may  then  beware, 
For  we  love  our  blue-eyed  Leyden  girls, 

And  would  welcome  the  shock  of  Toledo 

blades 

Were  the  prize  but  a  lock  of  their  gold 
en  curls. 

Hope,  on  brothers,  the  day  shall  come 

With  flaunting  of  banner  and  rolling  of 
drum, 

When  "  William  the  Silent "  shall  rally 
his  men, 

And  scourge   these  wolves  to  their  homes 
again. 


*A  ballad  of  the  "Low  Countries."    A.  D.  1567. 


JAMES  PUMMILL. 


JAMES  PUMMILL  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  December  twelfth,  1828.  He  received 
a  good  English  education,  and  then  learned  the  art  of  printing.  He  has  for  about  ten 
years  been  a  contributor  to  the  Ladies'  Repository  of  Cincinnati,  and  has  written 
frequently  for  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  New  York.  In  1846,  Mr.  Pummill 
printed  for  private  circulation,  at  Circleville,  Ohio,  a  small  volume  of  poems  entitled 
"  Fruits  of  Leisure."  In  1852  he  published  a  little  book  of  "  J'ugitive  Poems,"  in 
Cincinnati.  He  is  now  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Commercial,  published  at 
Aurora,  Indiana. 


EMBLEM  OF  PEACE. 

IN  Ardenne  forest,  calm  and  free, 
Forever  to  a  shining  sea, 
A  river  flows  in  quietude — 
The  angel  of  the  wood  ! 

No  tempest  ever  rends  its  calm ; 
But  peaceful  as  the  summer  balm, 
That  dwelleth  in  the  forest  ways, 
This  angel  river  strays. 

The  roses,  bending  o'er  its  side, 
Reflect  their  beauty  in  the  tide  : — 
At  night,  between  some  leafy  space, 
The  Moon  beholds  her  face. 

And  flecking  dots  of  light  and  shade, 
By  forest  trees  and  sunshine  made, 
Dance  gladly  o'er  this  river  bright, 
When  flies  the  dewy  night. 

And  through  the  long,  long  summer  day 
The  robin  pours  its  soul  away 
In  music,  by  its  margin  fair, 
Rejoiced  to  linger  there! 


Without  the  wood,  a  golden  sea, 
Where  sacred  Beauty  loves  to  be, 


Enclasps  within  its  fond  embrace 
This  stream  of  joyant  face. 

And  sparkling  ever  in  the  sun, 
From  rosy  morn  to  twilight  dun, 
The  river  murmurs  with  the  sea, 
A  holy  lullaby ! 

A  symbol  of  the  good  man's  life ! 
Exempt  from  gloom  and  cank'ring  strife, 
Thus  golden  glide  away  his  hours 
In  Life's  sequestered  bowers  ! 

And  when  the  shade  of  Time  is  past, 
He  reaches  that  far  sea  at  last, 
To  whose  glad  waters  aye  are  given 
The  blissful  smiles  of  Heaven ! 


TO  MARY. 

How  sweetly  glows  the  red,  red  rose 
Upon  the  mountain's  peak  ! 

But  O,  more  sweet  its  beauty  glows 
Upon  thy  cheek ! 


How  brightly  shine  the  stars  of  night 

Upon  the  summer  sky ! 
(  571  ) 


572 


JAMES    PUMMILL. 


[1850-60. 


But  brighter  beams  the  light  of  Love 
From  thy  clear  eye ! 

The  singing-birds  that  on  the  sprays 

Of  amorous  Spring  rejoice, 
Do  not  so  thrill  the  human  breast 

As  thy  sweet  voice ! 

Those  eyes,  those  eyes  of  melting  blue, 

They  steal  the  soul  away  ! 
And  leave  to  lovers  but  a  mass 

Of  trembling  clay ! 

Those  lips,  that  seem  the  rosy  gates 

Of  pearly  Paradise, 
To  kiss  were  easiest  way  to  steal 

Into  the  skies. 

O,  ruddy  stars,  forsake  your  realms ! 

Rose,  leave  the  mountain's  side ! 
Birds,  cease  your  songs  upon  the  sprays! 

Ye  are  outvied ! 


A  SUMMER  MORNING. 

SWEETLY  bloom  the  vernal  meadows 

In  the  morning  ray, 
When  the  night  of  gloomy  shadows 

Silent  steals  away, 
And  the  dewy  verdure  glanceth 

On  the  new-born  day. 

Lo  !  the  birds  are  trilling,  trilling 

Sweet  songs  to  the  sun, 
As  he  cometh  o'er  the  hill-top, 

Wrapped  in  shadows  dun  ; 
And  the  streams  are  smiling  at  him — 

Smiling  as  they  run. 


See  the  pale,  thin  clouds  a-floating 

O'er  the  matchless  sky  : 
0,  with  what  a  dreamy  motion 

Are  they  passing  by — 
Fading,  fading  into  ether — 

See  !  they  meit — they  die ! 

Ah  !  thou  still  and  beauteous  morning ! 

Lovely  as  thou  art, 
Full  of  holy  hope  and  beauty, 

Soon  wilt  thou  depart, 
Leaving  all  as  sad  and  lonely 

As  my  beating  heart ! 


CONTENTMENT. 

OFTTIMES  I  fling  me  on  a  mossy  hill, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  some  o'erarching 

tree, 
And  listen  to  the  hum  of  breeze  and 

bee, 

And  modest  melody  of  bird  and  rill. 
Serene  contentment  dwelleth  ever  here, 
The  purest  spirit  of  my  leafy  cell ; 
And  Love  and  Joy  surround  me  with  a 

spell ; 
And  Hope,  the  daughter  of  the  dawning 

year, 
Sings    music   to   me,   chasing   all   things 

drear. 
O  happy  fairies  of  my  solitude ! 

Companions  of  my  silent,  sylvan  hours  ! 
I  would  that   Spring,  with  her  young 

band  of  flowers, 

And  you,  ye  happy,  heart-delighting  brood, 
And  I,  might  ever  dwell  in  this  breeze- 
haunted  wood ! 


JAMES  R.  BARRICK. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  BARRICK — a  popular  contributor  to  the  Louisville,  Journal, 
Graham's  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  and  other  widely  circulated  periodicals — is 
an  influential  farmer  and  merchant  of  the  town  of  Glasgow,  Kentucky.  He  was  born 
in  Barren  county  of  that  State,  on  the  ninth  day  of  April,  1829.  In  1859  Mr.  Bar- 
rick  was  chosen  to  represent  the  legislative  district  in  which  he  resides ;  he  has,  there 
fore,  exerted  influence  in  the  politics  as  well  as  the  poetry  of  Kentucky,  and  in  both 
is  entitled  to  honorable  consideration. 


ABSENT  FRIENDS. 

WE  miss  their  pleasant  faces, 
We  miss  each  gentle  smile, 
That  were  ever  wont  to  greet  us 
With  a  loving  light  the  while ; 
We  miss  their  merry  voices 
In  the  halls  of  mirth  and  glee, 
We  miss  them  in  the  dear  old  haunts, 
Where  their  faces  used  to  be. 

We  go  out  in  the  morning, 

When  the  woods  delight  the  eye, 

And  we  gaze  out  on  the  beauty 

Of  the  smiling  earth  and  sky ; 

But  a  vacant  place  is  round  us, 

And  a  vacant  place  within, 

For  the  scenes  that  once  could  cheer  us 

Are  not  now  as  they  have  been. 

We  go  out  in  the  even, 
On  the  twilight  sky  to  gaze, 
When  the  shades  of  night  are  rising 
Softly  through  the  distant  haze. 
And  we  think  of  those  who  loved  us, 
When  our  days  were  young  and  fair, 
Yet  we  sigh  to  think  their  presence 
Vanished  like  a  form  of  air. 


We  feel  our  pleasures  fading, 
And  our  joys  declining  fast, 
As  the  shadow  of  the  future 
Dims  the  sunlight  of  the  past ; 
And  in  vain  we  look  to  nature 
For  the  light  of  other  years, 
When  our  hearts  are  brimmed  with  sad 
ness, 
And  our  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 

But  in  dreams  we  see  their  faces 
Full  of  sunshine  as  before, 
And  their  eyes  as  bright  as  ever 
With  the  welcome  light  of  yore ; 
And  with  words  of  love  they  greet  us, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Till  we  feel  that  we  are  with  them, 
In  a  blessed  spirit  land. 


THE  FOREST  STREAM. 

IN  a  low  and  ceaseless  murmur 
Gently  flows  the  forest  stream, 
Day  and  night  to  nature  chanting, 
Music  sweet  as  song  and  dream, 
In  the  mirrored  sky  revealing 
All  the  beauty  of  its  gleam. 


(573) 


574 


JAMES    R.    BARRICK. 


[1850-60. 


With  a  song  of  joy  and  gladness 
Doth  the  little  minstrel  sing ; 
And  each  passing  breeze  and  zephyr 
Wafts  its  echo  on  their  wing, 
Till  the  air  around,  above  it, 
Swells  with  magic  murmuring. 

Bubbling  onward  like  a  fountain, 
Born  of  melody  and  song, 
Like  a  transient  gleam  of  beauty, 
Flows  the  silver  stream  along — 
Chanting  anthems  unto  nature — 
She  to  whom  its  notes  belong. 

Hastening  onward — onward  ever, 
Like  the  life  that  flows  in  me, 
As  a  wave  upon  the  river, 
Hastening  onward  to  the  sea; 
As  a  hope  the  hidden  future 
Scanning  for  the  things  to  be. 

Summer  storms  may  o'er  it  gather, 
Winds  of  autumn  round  it  wail — 
Winter,  too,  its  bosom  ruffle, 
With  its  icy  sleet  and  hail ; 
But  with  summer — autumn — winter, 
Doth  its  steady  flow  prevail. 

Thus  life's  fountain  to  its  river 
In  a  winding  current  flows, 
And  its  river  to  its  ocean 
In  a  channel  deeper  grows, 
Till  its  fountain — river — ocean, 
In  eternity  repose. 


ONE  YEAR  AGO. 

A  SMILE  is  on  thy  lips  to-night, 

A  joy  is  in  thine  eyes, 
And  on  thy  brow  there  beams  a  light 

That  with  no  shadow  vies ; 
I  think  of  days  that  swift  have  past, 

Of  pleasures  still  that  flow, 
And  joys  that  have  no  sorrows  cast, 

Though  born  one  year  ago. 


Tho'  spring  and  summer  have  come  and  gone, 

And  winter's  here  again, 
We  still  may  view  each  grove  and  lawn 

With  sense  unmixed  with  pain  ; 

r  in  our  hearts  still  brighter  grows, 

The  only  flame  they  know, 
The  love  that  in  each  bosom  glows, 

Just  born  one  year  ago. 

Our  hearts  were  linked  with  magic  bands, 

Just  wove  one  year  ago, 
ike  waves  that  meet  on  ocean's  strands, 

Then  back  in  union  flow ; 
Mid  winter's  gloom,  'mid  summer's  flowers, 

We've  lived  unknown  to  woe, 
Yet  linked  have  been  with  lightwing'd  hours, 

Just  born  one  year  ago. 

So  changes  yet  have  crossed  our  path, 

No  sorrows  vailed  our  eyes, 
thunder  clouds  dissolved  in  wrath 

Above  our  Paradise ; 
And  when  the  winds  and   waves  complain, 

The  storms  and  tempests  blow, 
We'll  turn  our  eyes  and  hearts  again 

To  view  one  year  ago. 


TO  A  POET. 

THY  heart  beats  to  the  living  heart  and 

pulse, 

Throbbing  with  life  thro'  all  the  universe. 
All  lovely  things  are  imaged  on  the  leaves 
Of  thy  heart's  pages — on  thine  eye  and  ear 
Float  all  the  harmonies  of  sight  and  sound. 
Love  is  to  thee  as  dew  unto  the  flower, 
As  light  to  day,  as  sunshine  to  the  earth, 
Thy  being's  light,  its  hope  and  destiny; 
It  is  the  spirit  of  thy  thoughts  and  dreams, 
Thy  soul's  deep  passion,  and  its  presence 

weaves 

Around  thy  brow  a  diadem  of  flowers, 
As  from  thy  heart's  deep  fountains  outward 

flow 
Its  gentle  streams  in  waves  of  melody. 


ELIZABETH   SAMPSON   HOYT. 


ELIZABETH  ORPHA,  fifth  daughter  of  John  and  Mercy  Sampson,  is  a  native  of 
Athens,  Ohio.  Her  opportunities  for  early  education  were  but  few,  indeed ;  but  her 
thirst  for  knowledge,  her  energy  of  character,  and  her  lofty  purposes,  could  not  be 
repressed  by  any  combination  of  difficulties.  Genius  will  burn,  and  burn  till  it  blazes 
into  notice.  Among  the  young  gentlemen  of  Ohio  University,  Miss  Sampson  had 
many  to  appreciate  her  genius,  to  love  her  character,  and  to  encourage  her  ambition 
to  the  heights  of  literature.  What  they  learned  from  their  professors,  they  dropped 
upon  her  ears.  In  her  hands  they  placed  the  text-books  which  they  had  mastered. 
In  this  way  she  early  attained  an  unusual  degree  of  intellectual  culture  and  devel 
opment.  Though  naturally  most  fond  of  metaphysical  studies,  she  possessed  equal 
facility  in  the  acquisition  of  mathematical  truth  and  linguistic  lore.  Her  ability  to 
comprehend  Paley,  Butler,  logic  and  the  mathematics,  when  but  a  little  girl,  was  to 
the  writer  a  wonder.  She  wrote  true  poetry  from  a  mere  child.  Ere  fifteen  of  her 
summers  had  faded  into  autumn,  she  had  written  a  volume.  Many  judicious  critics 
urged  her  to  put  that  volume  before  the  public,  but  shrinking  modesty  kept  out  of 
sight  what  might  have  gladdened  and  soothed  many  a  fireside. 

Her  eyes  failed  her  about  this  time,  and  have  never  since  been  restored.  In  all 
her  studies  for  many  years,  she  has,  like  Prescott,  been  forced  to  rely  almost  solely  on 
her  friends. 

In  1854,  she  married  John  W.  Hoyt,  a  gentleman  of  talent  and  learning,  at 
that  time  a  Professor  in  a  medical  college  in  Cincinnati,  subsequently  Professor  in 
Antioch  College,  Ohio,  and  at  this  time  Secretary  of  the  WL>consin  State  Agricultural 
Society,  and  editor  of  the  Wisconsin  Farmer.  Her  marriage,  besides  being  a  very 
happy  one,  especially  in  its  spiritual  relations,  gave  to  her  the  companionship  of  a 
superior  mind,  having  a  severe  classic  taste,  and  the  sympathy  of  a  generous  heart, 
possessing  remarkable  enthusiasm  of  nature. 

Since  the  removal  of  Mr.  Hoyt,  in  1857,  to  Wisconsin,  Mrs.  Hoyt  has  written 
more  than  for  many  previous  years.  Analytically  considered,  her  poems  give  evi 
dence  of  great  tenderness  of  feeling,  a  genuine  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and  an 
overflowing  sympathy  witli  nature  and  humanity.  Philosophical  acumen,  vehement 
will  and  a  heroism  truly  womanly  are  never  deficient  in  her  poems  when  needed. 
Enlargement  of  heart,  elevation  of  character,  refinement  of  taste,  and  improvement 
in  morals,  cannot  fail  to  reward  the  reader  of  her  poetry.  Her  poems  for  children 
are  singularly  felicitous. 

No  complete  volume  of  Mrs.  Hoyt's  poems  has  yet  been  published,  but  several 
little  books  for  children,  from  her  pen,  have  been  successful.  We  trust  that  her 
friends  will,  ere  long,  be  gratified  with  a  volume  which  will  exhibit  her  varied  capac 
ity  for  metrical  composition. 

(575) 


576 


ELIZABETH    S.    HOYT. 


[1850-60. 


A  HYMN  OF  OLD  AGE. 

WHEN  to  the  banquet  of  the  soul 
Life's  latest  fruits  are  brought, 

And  gathered  in  refulgent  whole, 
Its  added  sunsets  wrought, 

What  glory  resteth  on  his  head, 
Whose  lengthened  shadow  shows 

How  dimly  far  life's  cradle  bed 
Is  from  its  last  repose. 

There  come  no  more  the  pageantries 
That  thronged  the  path  of  youth  ; 

Pomp  of  meridian  glories, 

That  tempted  manhood's  truth  ; 

And  there  no  more  the  burning  haste 
Of  passion's  treacherous  flame, 

With  conscious  virtue's  bitter  waste, 
And  self-accusing  blame ; 

But  peace,  instead,  and  joy  serene, 
As,  wrapped  in  faith  sublime, 

He  walks  with  calm  unfaltering  mien 
Upon  the  verge  of  time. 

Temptations  conquered,  truth  achieved, 
Falsehood  and  fear  o'erthrown ; 

Justice  and  charity  retrieved, 
To  large  experience  grown ; 

All  individual  interests  merged 

In  universal  claims, 
Divinely  moved,  and  onward  urged 

To  ever  nobler  aims, 

He,  on  the  remnant  of  his  days, 
With  wise  affections  crowned, 

Sits  chanting  o'er  life's  psalm  of  praise 
Against  the  outward  bound ; 

Where  steadfast  Hope  illumes  the  way, 
And  Faith,  with  open  eyes, 

Beholds  the  dawning  of  a  day 
Eternal  in  the  skies. 


Hail,  happy  Age !  when  sinks  thy  sun 

In  life's  last  purpling  fold, 
How  precious  is  the  privilege  won, 

Of  calmly  growing  old. 


OCTOBER. 

NOT  Summer  now,  nor  Winter  yet ; 
Come  walk  with  me  awhile  between. 
The  Year  invites  ;  almost  Time  waits, 
As  Autumn  holds  ajar  her  gates — 
Her  feast  prepared ;  her  welcome  said ; 
The  heavens  with  benedictions  spread, 
And  all  so  courteous,  fair  and  still, 
The  Season  and  the  Guest  who  will 

In  cheerful  leisure  met. 
Oh,  who  would  miss  it  ?  or  forget 
The  suns  that  rise,  the  suns  that  set ; 
The  rustle  of  the  crimsoning  leaf; 
The  gush  and  murmur  of  the  stream  ; 
The  thoughts  we  think,  the  dreams  we 

dream, 
Those    south-wind   days — so   bright   so 

brief — 

Where  many-hued  on  wood  and  sky, 
And  many-voiced  to  ear  and  eye, 

October  shifts  the  scene — 
Nay,  stands  apart  in  splendor  mild, 
Nature's  serene,  self-conscious  child. 
As  when  the  soul,  furnished  with  deeds 
That  men  call  good,  and  heaven  approves, 
No  pride  puts  on,  and  makes  no  boast, 
But  gaining  ever,  still  gives  most — 
So  through  the  months  October  moves ; 
The  Moon  of  Harvests  on  her  front, 
The  fruitage  of  the  round  year's  care 
Full-ripened  in  her  generous  air, 
With  gifts  replete,  as  man  with  needs : 

Passing,  'tis  true, 

And  softly  whispering,  "  So  are  you  ! " 
But  with  a  retrospect  that  fills 
With  well-earned  joy  life's  little  day — 
Swift-gliding  to  the  West  of  Time, 
So  fast  away ! 


1850-60.] 


ELIZABETH     S.    HOYT. 


577 


And  does  Time  wait  ? 
October  stand  at  Autumn's  gate  ? 
Lo !  now  her  watch-fires  on  the  hills 
Light  the  far  vales  ;  the  woods  illume. 
A  sudden  radiance  floods  the  air ; 
The  skies  a  sudden  glory  wear ; 
In  solemn  pomp  the  heavens  attend ; 
A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  o'er, 
Where  robed  in  royalty  of  old, 
Goes  down,  in  purple  and  in  gold, 
The  month  that  was,  and  is  no  more. 
"  Is  no  more  ! "     Our  senses  try  it, 
Prove  it  false  from  bloom  to  core ; 
Where  the  festive  word  is  spoken, 
Fruits  are  served,  and  bread  is  broken — 
There  we  meet  it  evermore. 
Better  still,  our  souls  deny  it — 
Nature's  sweetest  lesson  learning — 
As  our  footsteps,  homeward  turning, 
Find  the  rains  of  dim  November, 
Cold  and  drear,  begin  to  fall : 
And  its  beauty,  we  remember ; 
Light  the  fire,  and  shut  the  door ; 

Best  of  all, 
Hang  up  October  on  the  wall. 


AN  ODE  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Now   Time    that    made    no   haste,   and 

lagged,  and  droned, 
Hath  found  new  feet  wherewith  to  climb 

the  years ; 

And  let  who  will  go  whining  o'er  the  past, 
Join  thou  its  march  with  cheers. 

Not  that  the  Old  unto  the  New  is  lost, 
As  is  not  lost  to   bloom  the   seed  of 

flowers — 

So  let  thy  Past  unto  thy  Future  be, 
In  all  life's  coming  hours. 

From  every  failure  which   thy   memory 

broods, 
Wring  not  alone  the  hot  tears  of  regret ; 


But  this,  the  calm  and  self-sustained  re 
solve, 

A  higher  mark  to  set. 

Let  heart  and  will  take   counsel  of  the 

days, 

To  lay  strong  hands  upon  whatever  foe 
Would  lure  thy  soul  from  conscious  vir 
tue's  growth, 

And  from  thyself  to  know. 

In    all   thou   plannest,  give   thy   brother 

room  ; 
Be  his.  or  thine,  success,  have  thou  just 

pride ; 

Nor   fear   to   find    God's  providence   too 
small, 

If  ye  are  side  by  side. 

Upon  the  front  of  every  noble  thought — 

Not  dreaming  to  do,  but  doing  the  best — 
Set  thou  a  seal   to  make  that  thought  a 
thing, 

And  find  in  labor,  rest 

The  Present's  all  before  you,  where  to  be 
Brave  men  and  women  for  the  good  and 

true  ; 

The  battle  of  the  world's  great  needs  is 
always  at  your  door — 
See  that  it  wants  not  you. 


SONG  OF  THE  REAPER. 

MEN  call  me  a  Machine !     I'll  show  them 
What  a  Reaper  is,  and  owes  them — 
I,  the  timbered  from  the  forest ; 
I,  the  sinewed  from  the  mine ; 
Born  at  last  of  lapsing  ages, 
I  will  show  myself  divine ; 
Show  myself  a  peer — 
And  the  hour  is  near — 


37 


578. 


ELIZABETH     S.    HOYT. 


[1850-60. 


For  the  rustle  of  harvest  days  is  nigh, 
And  the  field  of  the  world  the.  least  I  will 
toy. 

With  a  dauntless  front,  and  nerve  of  steel. 
Shoulders  to  bear,  but  never  feel ; 
With  a  breast-work  never  yielding, 
Arm  of  oak,  and  tooth  of  iron ; 
With  a  strength  that  never  falters, 
With  a  purpose  never  alters — 
Hands  off.  and  away, 
Ye  men  of  but  clay ! 
Who  comes   as   I   come    to  the   bearded 

grain, 

That  has  waited  me  long,  nor  waited  in 
vain  ? 

Glistening  dews  are  bright  before  me  ; 
Pomp  of  clouds  is  floating  o'er  me, 

As  I  speed  my  tireless  journey 

Where  the  acres  lie  unshorn, 

Will  be  cradled  in  my  bosom 

Ere  the  night  o'ertakes  the  morn — 
Ere  the  life-beat  stop 
In  the  flower  I  crop, 
Or  the  frighted  bird,  so  lately  its  guest, 
Comes  back  to  look  for  its  little  nest. 

Then  lead  me  forth  where  the  fields  are 

white, 
And  come  in  your  pride  to  the  glorious 

sight, 
Where    I,   the    Reaper,  will    prove   my 

claim 
To    a    victor    crown     and    a     deathless 

name — 

Will  prove  my  birth 
To  the  sons  of  earth, 
When  the  golden  sheaves  that  follow  my 

tread — 
With  the  blessing  of  millions — are  bending 

with  bread, 

As  I  go  right  on  in  my  mission  sublime, 
Giving  rest  unto  labor,  and  moments  to 

time ! 


THE  TOWN  AND  FARM. 

THE  Winter,  clothed  in  vestal  white, 

And  jeweled  robe  severe, 
Still  claims  the  north-west  for  her  right, 

And,  trembling,  holds  the  year. 

The  people  of  a  thousand  towns, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  and  they 

Upon  whose  path  a  fortune  frowns 
That  has  no  brighter  day, 

Are  shivering  all  with  dread  and  doubt, 
Because  the  o'erruling  plan 

Another  wisdom  hath  found  out, 
Than  that  of  man  for  man. 

Only  the  farmer,  'neath  whose  roof, 

By  hardy  toil  up-raised, 
Is  peace  of  mind  with  plenteous  stores, 

Looks  out,  a  "  God  be  praised ! " 

For  well  he  knows  the  piercing  cold, 
The  wind,  the  hail,  the  frost, 

Will  give  him  back  a  thousand  fold, 
For  all  their  bitter  cost. 

Deep  in  the  snow-protected  soil 

Lies  the  abundant  gift — 
Waits  but  the  season  and  his  toil, 

Its  bounteous  arms  to  lift. 

For  him  the  dewy  grasses  lie 
Beneath  the  prairie  snow — , 

Will  wave  in  beauty  'neath  the  sky, 
When  gorgeous  flowerets  glow. 

For  him  the  maize  will  lift  its  head, 

And  silken  in  the  sun; 
The  golden  grains  will  live,  though  dead, 

When  winter's  work  is  done. 

With  beauty  touched,  and  life  instinct, 

The  tender  bud  unfold, 
Till  rosy  children  run  to  catch 

The  apple,  plump  and  gold. 


1850  -60.] 


ELIZABETH    S  .    II  0  Y  T . 


579 


O  while  the  earth  is  rosy  round, 
While  mountain-tops  are  gray, 

While  rivulets  dance  unmeasured  sound, 
And  insect  bevies  play  ; 

While  summer-time  is  green  and  gold, 
While  autumn's  leaf  is  sere, 

While  mosses  gather  on  the  mould 
Where  nature  drops  a  tear ; 

While  winter-time  is  snowy  fair — 

Like  this  unrivaled  morn — 
Let  those  who  can,  rejoice  them  there 

That  they  were  farmers  born. 


THE  SISTERS— A  FABLE. 

Two  sisters,  on  a  pleasant  day, 

Went  out  a-doing  good ; 
With  all  her  might  each  worked  away, 

And  did  the  best  she  could. 
And  one  was  laughing  all  the  while, 

As  happy  as  a  song ; 
The  other  was  not  seen  to  smile 

The  whole  day  long — 
For  while,  at  each  good  deed  of  one, 

Birds  sang,  and  roses  blew, 
At  every  thing  the  other  did 

Wasps  swarmed,  and  prickles  grew. 

These  sisters  two,  were  Love  and  Pride, 

Unlike  in  heart  and  name  ; 
Though  long  they  labored  side  by  side, 

Their  work  the  very  same. 
From  very  different  motives,  though ; 

Love,  from  good  will,  always, 
While  Pride — she  cared  for  nothing,  so 

She  won  a  world  of  praise. 
Love  thought  of  others ;  how  to  make 

For  all  a  pleasant  way  ; 
Pride  of  herself;  for  her  own  sake, 

Of  what  the  world  would  say. 


The  path  of  Love  was  like  herself, 
Of  joy  and  beauty  born  ; 

The  path  of  Pride  was  like  herself, 
A  trouble  and  a  thorn. 


THIS  LITTLE  LIFE. 

A  LITTLE  bird,  on  a  little  tree, 

Is  singing  a  little  song ; 
While  a  little  sock,  for  my  little  boy, 

I  am  knitting  by  little  along. 

A  little  crumb  the  little  bird 

Its  little  birdie  feeds ; 
A  little  bread  and  a  little  milk 

My  little  baby  needs. 

Then  the  little  plans  for  these  little  ones 
With  a  little  care  are  made, 

And  the  little  bird  and  the  little  babe 
In  their  little  beds  are  laid. 

To  the  little  birdie's  little  nest 
Comes  a  little  stray  moonbeam  ; 

To  my  little  babie's  little  rest 
A  little  shining  dream. 

A  little  night,  and  the  little  day 

Is  peeping  a  little  in, 
And  the  little  work  and  the  little  play 

Of  the  little  world  begin. 

A  little  while,  and  the  little  bird 

Is  singing  its  little  song  ; 
A  little  while,  and  my  little  sock 

I  am  knitting  by  little  along. 

Then  the  little  crumbs  and  the  little  cares 

For  the  little  bird  and  boy, 
The  little  dreams  and  the  little  prayers 

The  little  day  employ — 

Till,  little  by  little,  the  song  is  sung ; 
And,  little  by  little,  the  stitches  strung ; 
And  the  little  bird  and  the  little  wife 
End,  little  by  little,  this  little  life. 


MARY  WILSON  BETTS. 


MARY  E.  WILSON,  born  near  Maysville,  Kentucky,  about  the  year  1830,  was,  in 
1854,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the  younger  writers  of  that  State.  In  the  summer 
of  1854  she  was  married  to  Morgan  L.  Betts,  a  young  man  of  talent  and  enterprise, 
who  had  been  one  of  the  publishers  and  editors  of  the  Capital  City  Fact  of  Columbus, 
Ohio,  and  who  was  then  an  editor  of  the  Detroit  Times.  On  the  sixteenth  of  Sep 
tember,  1854,  Mrs.  Betts  suddenly  died  of  congestion  of  the  brain.  Her  husband 
survived  her  only  a  few  weeks. 

Mrs.  Betts  was  dearly  beloved  by  many  friends  in  Kentucky,  Ohio  and  Michigan, 
as  a  woman,  and  was  widely  admired  as  a  young  poet  whose  writings  gave  promise 
of  decided  excellence.  In  a  touching  obituary  notice,  the  editor  of  the  Detroit  Times 
said:  "Radiant  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  she  beheld  the  dawn  of  a  bright  future,  only  to 
recline  in  the  silent  chamber  of  an  early  grave.  Friendship  had  crowned  her  temples 
with  its  choicest  wreaths.  Love  scattered  his  sweetest  blossoms  in  her  path,  only  to 
prepare  her  for  the  purer  happiness  of  another  world." 


A  KENTUCKIAN  KNEELS  TO  NONE  BUT 
GOD.* 

AH  !  tyrant  forge  thy  chains  at  will — 

Nay !  gall  this  flesh  of  mine  ; 
Yet,  thought  is  free,  unfetter'd  still, 

And  will  not  yield  to  thine. 
Take,  take  the  life  that  Heaven  gave, 

And  let  my  heart's  blood  stain  thy  sod ; 
But  know  ye  not  Kentucky's  brave 

Will  kneel  to  none  but  God? 

You've  quenched  fair  Freedom's  sunny 
light, 

Her  music  tones  have  stilled ; 
And  with  a  deep  and  darken'd  blight, 

The  trusting  heart  has  fill'd ! 


•Colonel  Crittenden,  son  of  John  J.  Crittenden,  United 
States  Senator  for  Kentucky,  commanded  the  filibuster 
forces  taken  prisoners  at  sea  near  Havana,  August  fifteenth, 
1861.  Doomed  to  death  by  the  Cuban  authorities,  and 
ordered  to  be  shot  on  the  sixteenth,  they  were  all  com 
manded  to  kneel.  Colonel  Crittenden  spurned  the  com 
mand  with  these  words :  "A  Kentuckian  kneels  to  none 
but  God." 

(  580 


Then  do  you  think  that  I  will  kneel 
Where  such  as  ye  have  trod  ? 

Nay !    point  your  cold  and  threat'ning 

steel, 
I'll  kneel  to  none  but  God. 

As  summer  breezes  lightly  rest 

Upon  a  quiet  river, 
And  gently  on  its  sleeping  breast 

The  moonbeams  softly  quiver — 
Sweet  thoughts  of  home  lit  up  my  brow 

When  goaded  with  the  rod; 
Yet,  these  cannot  unman  me  now — 

I'll  kneel  to  none  but  God. 

And  though  a  sad  and  mournful  tone 

Is  coldly  sweeping  by; 
And  dreams  of  bliss  forever  flown 

Have  dimm'd  with  tears  mine  eye — 
Yet,  mine's  a  heart  unyielding  still — 

Heap  on  my  breast  the  clod ; 
My  soaring  spirit  scorns  thy  will — 

I'll  kneel  to  none  but  God. 


FLORUS   B.   PLIMPTON. 


FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON  was  born  September  fourth,  1830,  in  Palmyra, 
Portage  county,  Ohio.  His  father,  Billings  O.  Plimpton,  removed  from  Connecticut 
in  the  early  part  of  the  century,  and  connected  himself  with  the  Pittsburg  Conference 
of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  retaining  an  itinerant  relation  to  it  until  the  Erie 
Conference  was  erected,  when  he  was  set  off  with  that  branch  of  the  itinerant  work, 
and  remains  one  of  the  few  original  members  of  that  body.  Shortly  after  entering 
upon  his  ministerial  labors  in  northern  Ohio,  he  married  Miss  Eliza  Merwin,  young 
est  daughter  of  one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Reserve ;  and  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
was  the  third  son  of  their  union. 

Florus  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  a  common  school  and  academic  education,  re 
maining  on  his  father's  farm,  in  Hartford,  Trumbull  county,  till  seventeen  years  of 
age,  when  he  entered  on  his  collegiate  course  at  Allegheny  College,  Meadville,  Penn 
sylvania,  where  he  remained  three  years,  when  changes  in  the  domestic  affairs  of  his 
father's  family  rendered  it  necessary  for  him  to  return  home.  He  did  not  resume  his 
collegiate  course,  thus  abruptly  terminated,  but  in  the  spring  of  1851  connected  him 
self  with  James  Dumars  in  the  publication  of  the  Western  Reserve  Transcript,  at 
Warren,  Trumbull  county.  In  the  summer  of  1852  he  received  an  invitation  to  con 
duct  a  Whig  Campaign  paper  in  Niles,  Berrien  county,  Michigan,  which  he  accepted. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  Campaign,  disastrous  alike  to  his  political  hopes  arid  the  party 
with  which  he  was  identified,  he  returned  to  Ohio,  and  connected  himself  with  the 
Portage  Whig,  then  conducted  by  John  S.  Herrick,  at  Ravenna,  Portage  county. 
During  his  residence  there  he  married  Miss  Cordelia  A.  Bushnell  of  Hartford,  Trum 
bull  county,  on  the  second  of  June,  1853,  and  in  the  following  spring  removed  to 
Elmira,  Chemung  county,  New  York,  where  he  was  engaged,  till  the  spring  of  1857, 
in  the  publication  of  the  Elmira  Daily  Republican,  and  a  weekly  campaign  paper 
in  1856.  In  1857  he  removed  to  Pittsburg,  Pennsylvania,  and  associated  himself 
with  the  Daily  Dispatch.  He  is  now  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Cincinnati  Commercial. 

Mr.  Plimpton  has  contributed  to  various  newspapers  and  periodicals  in  the  East 
and  West :  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Genius  of  the  West, 
New  York  Tribune,  and  Ohio  State  Journal;  but  for  three  or  four  years  has  confined 
his  labors  to  the  newspapers  with  which  he  has  been  associated.  He  has,  however, 
within  that  time,  published  but  a  few  poems.  Such  leisure  as  he  could  command  for 
visits  from  the  Muse,  has  been  devoted  to  the  elaboration  of  a  poem  of  considerable 
scope,  which  he  designs  for  a  volume  when  prudence  commends  a  collection  of  his 
poems. 

The  ballad,  "  Lewis  Wetzel,"  which  concludes  the  selections  for  this  volume,  now 
first  appears  in  print. 

(581) 


FLO  II  US    B.    PLIMPTON. 


[1850-60. 


THE  OAK. 

GRANDLY  apart  the  giant  monarch  stands, 
All  reverend  with  lichens,  looking  down 
A  green  declivity  on  pastoral  lands, 
And     hazy    church-spires    in    the    distant 

town. 

When  parching  suns  the  scented  fields  em 
brown, 
And  all  the  waysides  choke  with  dust  and 

heat, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  regal  crown 
Fair  maids   and   lusty  youth  at  eve  re 
treat, 

To   dance  the  hours  away  with  lightly- 
twinkling  feet. 

When,  to  the  singing  of  the  early  birds, 
Spring  bursts  in  blossoms  from  the  south 
ern  sky, 
And   scornful   of    the    stall,   the    lowing 

herds 

In  pastures  green  delight  to  graze  and  lie  ; 
When  milk-white  doves  to  mossy  gables 

fly- 
Heaven  filled  with  song,  earth  with  sweet 

utterings, 
And  winds   through  odorous   vales  blow 

pleasantly, 
Its  thousand  boughs   seem  bursting   into 

wings, 
Silken  and  smooth,  and  green,  and  full  of 

flutterings. 

Among  thick  drapery  of  green  its  nest 
The  dormouse  builds,  and  there  the  robins 

sing 

Till  Evening  sets  her  roses  in  the  west. 
On  topmost  boughs  the  chattering  squirrels 

swing, 
And  round  its  twigs  the  spiders  spin  and 

cling 
Their  gauzy  nets ;  there  too   the  beetles 

creep 
To  hide  in  shaggy  cells,  where  wood-ticks 

ring 


Their  mid-watch  bells  while  weary  mor 
tals  sleep — 

What  time,  'tis  said,  the  elves  their  mystic 
revels  keep. 

Here,    ancients    say,   his    royal    brothers 

stood ; 

But  none  remains — the  giant  stands  alone, 
The  gracious  lord  of  the  primeval  wood, 
The  hoary  monarch  of  an  heirless  throne. 
Here,  when  the  summer's  glory  gilds   its 

own, 

And  day  dims  dying  in  the  purple  air, 
The  angels  come  and  wake  each  heavenly 

tone 
That    floats    around    and   fondly   lingers 

there — 

A  worldless  song  of  praise  from  murmur 
ing  lips  of  prayer. 

Or   when    capricious  Autumn   dyes  with 

hues 
Crimson,  and  brown,  and  gold,  this  forest 

Lear, 
And  spangles  of  the  hoar-frost  and  the 

dews 
Like    countless    brilliants    flash    afar   and 

near 
The  gorgeous   state  he  keeps ;  and  cold 

and  clear, 

The  subtle  arrows  of  quick -quivering  light 
With  luster  tip  the  leaves  now  crisp  and 

sear, 
Then  seems  that  oak  th'  enchantment  of  the 

night, 
A  splendor  of  weird  spells,  a  cheat  upon 

the  sight ! 

But  most  'tis  kingly  when  the  laboring 
woods 

With  gusty  winds  and  darkening  tempests 
roar, 

And  crash  the  thunders  of  the  seething 
floods 

That  snow  their  white  foam  on  the  wreck 
ing  shore ; 


1850-60.] 


FLO  BUS    B.   PLIMPTON. 


583 


When  Winter  rages  on  the  lonely  moor, 
Yokes  the  swift  whirlwind  to  his  icy  car, 
And  in  Titanic  folds  the  heavens  o'er, 
Gather's  his  cloudy  banners  from  afar, 
And  marshals  with  shrill  blasts  the  ele 
ments  to  war. 

O  then  the  sound  of  the  entangled  wind 
Among    its    boughs,  is    like    the    stormy 

swell 

Of  organ-pipes  in  fretted  walls  confined, 
To   roll   through  arches  vast  and  die  in 

vault  and  cell. 
How  like  the  grand  old  monarch,  when 

the  fell 
And  pitiless  storm  seemed  with  the  world 

to  mock 
His  uncrowned  age — and  yet  how  strong 

and  well 
It  braved  the  storm  and  bore  the  tempest's 

shock, 
Firm  in  its  native  soil  as  Alpine  rock  to 

rock. 

And  well  I  love  that  oak !  Not  those  that 
shade 

Thy  classic  slopes,  Mount  Ida ;  or  shake 
down 

Their  brown-hued  fruit,  from  gnarled  boles 
decayed, 

Beside  the  winding  Simois ;  or  crown 

The  horrid  steeps  where  ivied  castles 
frown, 

And  dark-eyed  bandits  bid  th'  unwary 
Stand  ; 

Are  regal  in  their  centuries  of  renown 

As  thou,  hale  oak,  whose  glories  thus  com 
mand 

My  humble  song,  O  pride  of  all  our  moun 
tain  land ! 

Here  rests  the  poor  wayfarer,  soiled  and 

worn, 
And  folds  his  hands  in  slumbers  soft  and 

deep; 


Here  comes  the  widowed  soul  her  loss  to 
mourn, 

Counts  o'er  her  trysts,  and  counts  them 
but  to  weep ; 

Here  happy  lovers  blissful  unions  keep, 

And  bending  age  its  vanished  youth  de 
plores, 

Or  sighs  for  heaven's  sweet  rest,  life's 
gentlest  sleep, 

That  gives  youth  back  to  age,  the  lost  re 
stores, 

And  brings  the  welcoming  hands  that  waft 
to  happier  shores. 

The  village  maid,  who  sings  among  the 

fields, 

In  wrinkled  sorrow  sighs  her  soul  away ; 
The    dimpled    babe   to   reverend    honors 

yields, 
And  patriarch  Faith  sees  calmly  close  the 

day. 
Life  laughs — loves — dies;  afar  the  years 

convey 

On  cloudy  wings  the  pleasures  we  pursue, 
And    still    thou    piercest    the    repelling 

clay, 
And    lift'st   thy  regal    head   to    heaven's 

blue, 
Green  with  a  thousand  years  of  sunshine, 

rain,  and  dew. 

In  all  thy  varied  glory  thou  hast  been 
The  idol  of  my  boyhood,  and  the  pride 
Of    more    exacting    manhood ;    now,    as 

then, 

I  love  to  lean  thy  moss-green  trunk  be 
side, 

And  mingle,  with  the  voices  of  the  tide 
And  thy  strange  whisperings,  my  unstudied 

song, 
And   here   recall  the   dear  delights  who 

died 
Since   thy   great   arms    grew   obstinately 

strong — 

But  whose  quick  feet  no  more  beneath  thy 
shade  shall  thronn. 


584 


FLORUS    B.    PLIMPTON. 


[1850-60. 


THE  REFORMER. 

THE  streams  that  feed  the  thirsty  land 
Give  largess  freely  as  they  flow, 

From  mountain  rivulets  expand 

And    strong-armed,    sweep    the    vales 
below ; 

And  eddying  on  through  bay  and  bight, 
Through  lonely  wild  and  lovely  lea, 

By  scarped  cliff  and  stormy  height, 
In  mighty  rivers  reach  the  sea. 

So  shall  he  grow  who  gives  to  life 
High  purposes  and  lofty  deeds, 

Who  sees  the  calm  above  the  strife 
Of  blinded  self  and  narrow  creeds. 

Oh,  large  of  heart !  oh,  nobly  great ! 

He  scorns  the  thrall  of  sect  and  clan, 
Shakes  off  the  fetters  forged  in  hate, 

And  claims  a  brotherhood  with  man. 


Dwarfed  ignorance 


with 


fills  the   world 
wail, 

Opinion  sneers  at  his  advance ; 
And  Error,  rusted  in  his  mail, 

Strides    forth    to    meet   him,   lance   to 
lance. 

Mean,  pigmy  souls,  that  cringe  to  form 
And  fatten  on  the  dregs  of  time, 

Start  from  the  dust  in  their  alarm, 
And  prate  of  rashness,  treason,  crime. 

Law's  wrinkled,  cunning  advocates 
Quote  mummied  precedents  and  rules, 

The  relics  of  barbaric  states, 

The  maxims  of  med'eval  schools. 

For  him  the  tyrant's  guard  is  set, 
For  him  the  bigot's  fagots  fired, 

For  him  the  headsman's  ax  is  whet, 

And   chains   are   forged,    and   minions 
hired. 


Strong  in  his  purpose,  patient  still, 
He  wrestles  with  the  doubts  of  mind, 

And  shakes  the  iron  thews  of  will, 
As  oaks  are  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Invincible  in  God  and  Truth, 
To  smite  the  errors  of  his  age 

He  gives  the  fiery  force  of  youth, 
The  tempered  wisdom  of  the  sage. 

He  sees,  as  prophets  saw  afar, 

In  faith  and  vision  wrapped  sublime, 

The  coming  of  the  Morning  Star, 
The  glory  of  the  latter  time. 

His  faith,  outreaching  circumstance, 
Beholds,  beyond  the  narrow  range 

Of  present  time,  the  slow  advance 
Of  cycles  bringing  wondrous  change. 

He  hears  the  mighty  march  of  mind, 
The  stately  steppings  of  the  free, 

Where  glorious  in  the  sun  and  wind, 
Their  blazoned  banners  yet  shall  be. 

Well  can  he  wait :  the  seed  that  lies 
Hid  in  the  cold,  repulsive  clay, 

Shall  burst  in  after  centuries, 

And  spread  its  glories  to  the  day. 

Well  can  he  wait :  though  sown  in  tears 
And  martyred  blood,  with  scourge  and 
stripe, 

God  watches  through  the  whirling  years, 
And  quickens  when  the  hour  is  ripe. 

Man's    hands    may    fail,    the    slackened 
rein 

Drop  from  his  nerveless  grasp,  but  still 
The  wheels  shall  thunder  on  the  plain, 

Rolled  by  the  lightning  of  his  will. 


1850-60.] 


FLORUS    B.   PLIMPTON. 


585 


SOUVENIRS. 

i.— L'ENVOY. 

As  sweetly  tranced  the  ravished  Floren- 
,          tine 

Tarried  'mid  pallid  gloom,  again  to  hear 
Cassella  warble  tuneful  to  his  ear, 
Thus  I,  a  Bacchant,  rosy  with  love's  wine, 
Drink   thy  words,  sweet,    forgetful    with 

what  haste 
Time's  winged  heel  beats  rearward  all 

the  hours. 

To  me  alike  all  seasons,  deeds  and  pow 
ers, 

When  by  the  atmosphere  of  love  embraced, 
I  sit  sun-crowned,  and  as  a  god  elate, 
In  thy  dear  presence.     Let  the  great 

world  go. 
In  lowliest  meads  the  pansies  love  to 

grow, 

And  sweet  Content  was  born  to  low  estate. 
Here  is  our  blessed  Egeria — let  us  stay : 
Where  love  has  fixed  the  heart,  no  charm 
can  lure  away. 

II.— TELL  HER. 

O  river  Beautiful !  the  breezy  hills 

That   slope   their    green   declivities   to 

thee, 
In   purple   reaches   hide   my  life  from 

me. 

Go  thou,  beyond  the  thunder  of  the  mills, 
And   wheels   that  churn  thy  waters  into 

foam, 
And  murmuring  softly  to  the  darling's 

ear, 
And  murmuring  sweetly  when  my  love 

shall  hear, 

Tell  how  I  miss  her  presence  in  our  home. 
Say  that  it  is  as  lonely  as  my  heart ; 
The  rooms  deserted ;  all  her  pet  birds 

mute ; 

The  sweet  geraniums  odorless  ;  the  flute 
Its  stops  untouched,  while  wondrous  gems 
of  art 


Lie  lusterless  as  diamonds  in  a  mine, 
To  kindle  in  her  smile  and  in  her  radiance 
shine. 

III.— RETURN. 

Return — return  !  nor  longer  stay  thy  feet, 
Where  rugged  hills  shut  in  the  peaceful 

dale, 
And  chattering  runnels  riot  through  the 

vale, 
And    lose  themselves  in  meadows  violet 

sweet. 

Or  does  the  oriole  charm  thee ;  or  the  lark 
Lure  thee  to  green   fields,  where  the 

gurgling  brook 
Leaps  up  to  kiss  thy  feet,  the  while  we 

look 
For  thee  with  tearful  eyes  from  morn  till 

dark? 
O  winds,  that  blow  from  out  th'  inconstant 

West, 

O  birds,  that  eastward  wing  your  heaven 
ly  way, 

Tell  her  of  our  impatience — her  delay, 
And  woo  the  wanderer  to  her  humble  nest ; 
Come,  as  the  dove  that  folds  her  wings  in 

rest, 

When  holy  evening  sets  her  watch-star  in 
the  west. 


THE  BEREAVED. 

ALAS  !  for  those  who  mourn,  and  stand 
Like  watchers  by  a  rainy  sea, 
Who  wait  for  what  may  never  be, 

The  white  sails  striving  for  the  land. 

Their  prayers  are  sighs,  their  vows  are 

tears, 

For  sorrow  stayeth  all  the  night, 
And  sorrow  broodeth  in  the  light, 

And  casts  her  shadows  through  the  years. 


586 


FLORUS    B.    PLIMPTON. 


[1850-60. 


LEWIS  WETZEL.' 


STOUT-HEARTED  Lewis  Wetzel 
Rode  down  the  river  shore, 

The  wilderness  behind  him 
And  the  wilderness  before. 

He  rode  in  the  cool  of  morning, 
Humming  a  dear  old  tune, 

Into  the  heart  of  the  greenwood, 
Into  the  heart  of  June. 

He  needs  no  guide  in  the  forest 
More  than  the  hunter  bees ; 

His  guides  are  the  cool  green  mosses 
To  the  northward  of  the  trees.1 

Nor  fears  he  the  foe  whose  footstep 
Is  light  as  the  summer  air — 

The  tomahawk  hangs  in  his  shirt-belt, 
And  the  scalpknife  glitters  there ! 

The  stealthy  Wyandots  tremble, 
And  speak  his  name  with  fear, 

For  his  aim  is  sharp  and  deadly, 
And  his  rifle's  ring  is  clear. 

So,  pleasantly  rode  he  onward, 
Pausing  to  hear  the  stroke 

Of  the  settler's  ax  in  the  forest, 
Or  the  crash  of  a  falling  oak  ; 

Pausing  at  times  to  gather 

The  wild  fruit  overhead 
(For  in  this  rarest  of  June  days 

The  service-berries  were  red)  ; 


*  Lewis  Wetzel,  or  Wetsel,  as  it  is  indifferently  spelle 
•was  a  '*  mighty  hunter  "  in  the  pioneer  days  of  Wester 
Virginia,  of  which  he  was  a  native.     Many  traditiona 
iUi«-(  (lot«;s  of  his  extraordinary  skill  with  the  rifle  are  y 
preserved,  some  of  which  have  been  published.     An  im 
perfect  sketch  of  his  life  is  given  in  Doctor  Doddridge 
"  Notes  on  the  Settlement  and  Indian  Wars  in  the  Wes 
ern  parts  of  Virginia  and  Pennsylvania;"   a  work 
out  of  print,  but,  aside  from  its  speculative  dissertation 
among  the  most  valuable  contributions  to  the  history 
the  \Vest. 


And  as  he  grasped  the  full  boughs 

To  bend  them  down  amain, 
The  dew  and  the  blushing  berries 

Fell  like  an  April  rain. 

The  partridge  drums  on  the  dry  oak, 

The  croaking  corby  caws, 
The  blackbird  sings  in  the  spice-bush, 

And  the  robin  in  the  haws. 

And,  as  they  chatter  and  twitter, 
The  wild  birds  seem  to  say, 

"  Do  not  harm  us,  good  Lewis, 
And  you  shall  have  luck  to-day." 

So,  pleasantly  rode  he  onward, 

Till  the  shadows  marked  the  noon, 

Into  the  leafy  greenwood, 
Into  the  heart  of  June. 

ii. 

Now  speed  thee  on,  good  Lewis, 
For  the  sultry  sun  goes  down, 

The  hill-side  shadows  lengthen, 
And  the  eastern  sky  is  brown. 

Now  speed  thee  where  the  river 
Creeps  slow  in  the  coverts  cool, 

And  the  lilies  nod  their  white  bells 
By  the  margin  of  the  pool. 

He  crossed  the  silver  Kaska 
With  its  chestnut-covered  hills, 

And  the  fetlocks  of  his  roan  steed 
Were  wet  in  a  hundred  rills. 

"  And  there,"  he  cried  in  transport, 
"The  alders  greenest  grow, 

Where  the  wild  stag  comes  for  water, 
And  her  young  fawn  leads  the  doe." 

Grasping  his  trusty  rifle, 
He  whistled  his  dog  behind, 

Then  stretched  his  finger  upward 
To  know  how  set  the  wind.2 


1850-60.] 


FLORUS    B.    PLIMPTON. 


587 


O  steady  grew  the  strong  arm, 
And  the  hunter's  dark  eye  keen, 

As  he  saw  the  branching  antlers 
Through  the  alder  thickets  green. 

A  sharp,  clear  ring  through  the  green 
wood, 

And  with  mighty  leap  and  bound, 
The  pride  of  the  western  forest 

Lay  bleeding  on  the  ground. 

Then  out  from  the  leafy  shadow 

A  stalwart  hunter  sprang, 
And  his  unsheathed  scalpkriife  glittering 

Against  his  rifle  rang. 

"  And  who  are  you,"  quoth  Lewis, 
"  That  come  'twixt  me  and  mine?" 

And  his  cheek  was  flushed  with  anger, 
As  a  Bacchant's  flushed  with  wine. 

"  What  boots  that  to  thy  purpose?" 

The  stranger  hotly  said  ; 
"  I  marked  the  prize  when  living, 

And  it  is  mine  when  dead." 

Then  their  sinewy  arms  were  grappled, 
And  they  wrestled  long  and  well, 

Till  stretched  along  the  greensward 
The  humbled  hunter  fell. 

Upspringing  like  a  panther, 
In  pain  and  wrath  he  cried, 

"  Though  your  arms  may  be  the  stronger, 
Our  rifles  shall  decide." 

"  Stay,  stranger,"  quoth  good  Lewis, 
"  The  chances  are  not  even  ; 

Who  challenges  my  rifle 

Should  be  at  peace  with  heaven. 

"  Now  take  this  rod  of  alder, 
And  set  by  yonder  tree, 


A  hundred  yards  beyond  me, 
And  wait  you  there  and  see. 

"  For  he  who  dares  such  peril 
But  lightly  holds  his  breath ; 

May  his  unshrived  soul  be  ready 
To  welcome  sudden  death!" 

So  the  stranger  took  the  alder, 
And  wondering  stood  to  view, 

While  Wetzel's  aim  grew  steady, 
And  he  cut  the  rod  in  two. 

"  By  heaven  ! "  the  stranger  shouted, 

"  One  only,  far  or  nigh, 
Hath  arms  like  the  lithe  young  ash-tree, 

Or  half  so  keen  an  eye ; 

And  that  is  Lewis  Wetzel:" 

Quoth  Lewis,  "  Here  he  stands  ;" 

So  they  spoke  in  gentler  manner, 
And  clasped  their  friendly  hands. 

Then  talked,  the  mighty  hunters, 
Till  the  summer  dew  descends, 

And  they  who  met  as  foemen 

Rode  out  of  the  greenwood  friends — 

Rode  out  of  the  leafy  greenwood 

As  rose  the  yellow  moon, 
And  the  purple  hills  lay  pleasantly 

In  the  softened  air  of  June. 


1  Experienced  hunters,  it  is  well  known,  find  their  way 
through  pathless  forests   without  the  aid  of  a  compass, 
guided  only  by  the  mosses  and  lichens  which  are  partial 
to  the  north  side  of  trees. 

2  It  was  a  custom  among  pioneer  hunters  (says  Dodd- 
ridge),  when  on  hunting  expeditions,  and  in  the  vicinity 
of  favorite  hunting  grounds,  to  thrust  the  forefinger  into 
the  mouth,  and  when  heated,  to  hold  it  out  in  the  air. 
By  this  means   they  readily  detected   the  course  of  the 
wind. 


ALVIN   ROBINSON. 


ALVIN  ROBINSON,  a  native  of  Cortland  county,  New  York,  was  born  in  the  month 
of  May,  1830.  His  father  was  a  farmer.  Alvin  enjoyed  good  common  school  ad 
vantages,  and  then  wandering  westward  seeking  his  fortune,  spent  several  years  in 
California.  Returning  to  the  Pacific  States,  he  made  his  home  in  Chicago,  Illinois, 
and  is  now  the  editor  of  The  North-  Western  Home  Journal. 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  SORROW.* 

A  HOUSEHOLD  sorrow  lies  on  my  heart, 
Heavy,  and  damp,  and  chill ! 

I  feel  the  point  of  the  fearful  dart 
That  wounds,  but  does  not  kill. 

The  flashing  orb  of  a  noble  mind 
That  shown  on  life's  bright  river, 

Has  sunk,  a  darkened  moon,  behind 
The  hills  of  night  forever. 

I  watched  its  first  faint,  feeble  ray 
Gleam  out  on  a  world  of  strife, 

And  gladly  saw  the  fountains  play 
That  measured  the  stream  of  life. 

I  knew  not  then  of  the  sword  of  fire 
That  over  my  path  would  move, 

And  probe  with  the  keenness  of  despair 
The  depth  of  a  father's  love. 

Under  the  vale  of  a  midnight  sky, 
On  the  morrow's  wint'ry  bars, 

To  the  pitiless  stars  I  send  my  cry — 
To  the  cold  and  passionless  stars ! 

I  call  with  a  doubtful,  fitful  joy, 
That  back  from  the  starry  plain, 

The  wandering  mind  of  my  noble  boy 
May  come  to  our  home  again. 


*  Written  on  occasion  of  the  dementation  of  a  gifted  son. 

(588 


SUMMER  ON  THE  PRAIRIES. 

'Tis  summer  on  the  prairies, 

While  their  stretching  miles  of  bloom 
Cast  on  the  wild  and  wanton  winds 

Their  riches  of  perfume ; 
And    while   the   wild    cock   blows   his 
shell, 

The  brown  lark  pours  his  staves, 
The  broad  savannas  clap  their  hands 

And  roll  their  emerald  waves. 

There's  a  white  cliff,  like  a  tower, 

Looking  down  upon  a  stream, 
Where  the  gray  fox  sees  his  image, 

Half  asleep  and  half  in  dream ; 
And  northward  pass  two  pilgrim  birds, 

Well  pouched  and  very  slow, 
That  tell  of  isles  in  a  southern  sea, 

And  the  shores  of  Mexico. 

As  my  faithful  Indian  pony 

Gallops  lightly  o'er  the  plain, 
The  startled  fawn  leaps  up  in  fear, 

And  stalks  away  the  crane ; 
The  sword-snipe  circles  through  the  air 

And  screams  his  dismal  tune, 
And  the  red  wolf  sits  by  his  earthen 
den, 

And  howls  to  the  setting  moon  ! 


JOHN   HERBERT   A.  BONE. 


JOHN  HERBERT  A.  BONE  was  born  in  1830,  at  Penryn,  Cornwall,  England,  and  came 
to  this  country  in  1851.  Since  1857  he  has  been  the  associate  editor  of  the  Cleveland 
Daily  Herald,  and  out  of  a  genial  humor  and  an  inexhaustible  storehouse  of  "  quaint 
and  curious  lore,"  has  enriched  the  columns  of  that  journal  with  many  pleasant  jeu- 
d'esprits,  and  many  clever  and  entertaining  essays  on  "  the  fair,  the  old," — such  as 
"  Christmas- Day,"  "New- Year's  Eve,"  and  other  festive  anniversaries  evoke.  These 
have  been  every  where  read  and  copied  without  the  author's  name — a  matter  of 
regret  with  those  who  appreciate  Mr.  Bone's  wide  culture  and  fine  abilities. 

Mr.  Bone  first  became  known  to  the  people  of  the  West,  as  a  poet,  in  the  columns 
of  the  Pen  and  Pencil,  a  weekly  magazine  of  sixteen  octavo  pages,  started  by  Wil 
liam  Wallace  Warden,  at  Cincinnati,  in  January,  1853.  It  was  an  interesting  maga 
zine — having  a  corps  of  popular  contributors  and  editors  who  had  skill  in  news  and 
literary  paragraphs,  but  like  all  its  predecessors,  failed  to  secure  local  confidence  and 
pecuniary  support,  and  died  young — when  about  one  year  old. 

Mr.  Bone  has  contributed  to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book, 
Peterson's  Magazine,  Boston  Museum,  Yankee  Blade,  and  many  other  periodicals  and 
newspapers.  His  verse  is  marked  by  correctness,  ease,  and  poetic  feeling. 


THE  TWO  TEMPLES. 


loud 


rang   the  Minster 


CHEERFUL    and 
peal, 

And  sweet  was  the  organ's  strain, 
As  baron  and  knight  stepped  forth  to  kneel 

On  the  floor  of  the  sacred  fane  ; 
The  priestly  robes  were  heavy  with  gold, 

And  the  blaze  of  the  altar  light 
Revealed,  in  many  a  silken  fold, 

Gems  like  the  stars  of  night. 

Huge  and  grand  was  the  sacred  pile, 
Like  a  forest  the  pillars  stood  ; 

Wealth  and  power  had  formed  the  style 
From  the  porch  to  the  holy  rood ; 

Quaint  were  the  carvings  overhead, 
Bright  was  the  storied  pane, 


Rich  were  the  blazonings  of  the  dead, 
Who  slept  'neath  the  sacred  fane. 

The  Minster  gray  was  a  noble  pile, 

Wealth  shone  on  the  altar-stone, 
And  many  who  knelt  in  the  vaulted  aisle 

As  warriors  brave  were  known  ; 
The  organ  pealed  forth  its  harmony, 

And  the  incense  was  scattered  wide, 
And  He  who  taught  us  humility 

Was  worshiped  with  pomp  and  pride. 

Solemn  and  low  was  the  ocean  hymn, 
And  the  chant  of  the  forest  drear, 

As  the  traveler  knelt  in  the  evening  dim 
To  offer  his  humble  prater; 

The  vaulted  roof  that  o'er  him  spread, 
Was  the  arching  azure  sky, 


(589) 


590 


JOHN    H.    A.    BONE. 


[1850-60. 


And  the  lamps  that  light  on  the  altar  shed 
Wore  the  twinkling  stars  on  high. 

The  scented  flowers  their  incense  gave, 

The  sighing  breeze  was  the  bell, 
The  choristers  were  the  woods  and  wave, 

And  the  surf  as  it  rose  and  fell ; 
The  daisied  turf  was  his  jeweled  shrine 

Where  he  knelt  from  care  apart, 
The  falling  dew  was  the  sacred  wine, 

And  the  priest  was  his  trustful  heart. 

Years  have  passed,  and  a  mouldering  wall 

Stands  where  the  Minster  stood; 
And  brambles  grow  and  reptiles  crawl 

'Round  the  base  of  the  holy  rood  ; 
Fallen  are  pillar  and  fretted  arch, 

And  the  toad  leaves  its  noisome  slime 
On  the  pavement  crushed  'neath  the  heavy 
march 

Of  the  grim  destroyer,  Time. 

Gone  is  the  wealth  from  the  altar-stone, 

Rotten  the  vestments  gay  ; 
Dimmed  forever  the  lamps  that  shone 

Near  the  shrines  by  night  and  day. 
Naught  is  heard  but.  the  shrieking  owl, 

Or  the  distant  hunter's  horn ; — 
Laid  in  the  dust  is  casque  and  cowl, 

And  their  faith  is  a  thing  of  scorn. 

But  the  daisied  turf  still  forms  a  shrine, 

And  the  skies  their  blue  arch  spread ; 
The  lamps  of  night  unfaded  shine, 

And  the  flowers  their  incense  shed ; 
The  woods  and  waves  raise  their  hymn 
again, 

As  they  raised  it  in  days  of  yore  ; — 
Man's  temples  fall,  but  Nature's  fane 

Forever  stands  secure. 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

ON  the  land  the  shrouding  snow 
White,  and  ghastly,  and  chill ; 

An  icy  hand  on  the  wave, 
Holding  it  silent  and  still ; 

And  a  wailing  breath,  like  the  voice  of 

Death, 
Creeping  over  the  hill. 

A  pallid  moon  above, 

Set  in  a  star-gem rned  sky ; 
Spectral  shapes  of  cloud 

Hurriedly  flitting  by, 
O'er  the  sheeted  snow  as  they  swiftly  go, 

Making  gaunt  shadows  fly. 

The  Old  Year  totters  forth 

With  weak,  uncertain  tread  ; 
Bent  with  care  his  back, 

Bowed  with  sorrow  his  head, 
As  he  totters  on  where  before  have  gone 

The  years  now  cold  and  dead. 

His  path  is  amid  the  graves, 

And  specters  fill  the  air, — 
Dim  shapes  of  perished  hopes, 

Weird  forms  of  shuddering  fear, 
And    more    ghastly     still,    so  stony    and 
chill, 

Dread  shadows  of  wan  despair. 

Lost  in  the  gloom  of  night 

Is  the  Old  Year  gray  and  worn ; 

But  a  ruddy  tint  in  the  East 
Heralds  the  coming  morn, 

And  the  sweet-voiced   bells   glad  tidings 

tell 
Of  a  Year  that  is  newly  born. 


ANNA   RICKEY   ROBERTS. 


ANNAR.  RICKEY,  one  of  the  poetical  contributors  of  the  Columbian  and  Great 
West,  in  1850  and  1851,  is  a  native  of  Cincinnati,  we  believe.  In  1851  her  poems 
were  collected  in  a  volume  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  duodecimo  pages,  and 
published  at  Philadelphia  by  Lindsay  and  Blakiston.  The  book,  which  was  embel 
lished  with  a  portrait  of  its  author,  was  entitled  "  Forest  Flowers  of  the  West." 

In  1852  Miss  Rickey  was  married  to  Mr.  Roberts  of  Philadelphia,  in  which  city 
she  now  resides. 


LA  BELLE  RIVIERE. 

BEAUTIFUL  river !  on  thy  placid  stream 

The  Indian's  light  canoe  is  seen  no  more, 
Gliding  as  swiftly  as  a  winged  dream, 

Parting  the  waters  with  his  flashing  oar : 
The    hills    slow   rising  from    each   wood- 
fringed  shore, 

Are  mirrored  in  thy  calm,  pellucid  wave, 

Whose  rippling  pours  a  requiem  as  it  rolls, 

In    softened    murmurs,  by  the  humble 

grave 

Of  that  brave,  hardy  band  who  sleep  un 
known, 

Their  resting-place   unmarked   by  monu 
mental  stone. 


And  they,  the  rangers  of  the  broad  domain, 

Lords  of  the  forest,  hold  no  longer  sway  ; 
Thy  native  children  come  not  back  again, 

All,  all  have  vanished,   like  the  dew, 

away ; 

Or,  like  the  summer  leaves  that  I  have 
toss'd 

Upon  thy  sunlit  wave,  a  moment  seen 
Whirling  along  the  current  and  then  lost, 

Leaving  no  lingering  trace  of  what  hath 


been, 


No    mark    to   tell,   upon   life's    ceaseless 

river, 
That  they  have  passed  from  its  dark  tide 

forever. 

Within  thy  noble  forest  now  is  heard 
The   sound  of  ringing  ax :  the  silence 

ne'er 
Was  broken,  save  by  the  sweet  wild  bird, 

Or  gentle  footfall  of  the  timid  deer, 
Before  the  bold,  undaunted  pioneer 

Had  sought  the  land  of  promise,  the  far 

West, 

And  made  thy  lonely  shore  his  dwelling- 
place, 
And  reared  a  home  within  its   fertile 

breast, 

And  filled  it  with  the  sounds  of  busy  life, 
With  all  its  cares,  its  pleasures,  and  its 
strife. 


Thy  hills  re-echo  to  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  pealing  church-bells,  and  the  merry 

hum 

Of  busy  hands  and  voices  ;  and  around 
Thy  shores  are  gathered  many  who  have 

come 
As  wanderers  seeking  for  a  place  of  rest, 


(591) 


A  peaceful  home  upon  the  fertile  soil, 


592 


ANNA    RICKEY    ROBERTS. 


[1850-60. 


Where  labor  is  with  plenty  ever  blessed, 
"Where  wealth  awaits  the  hardy  hands 

that  toil, 
And    Freedom's    sun   with   soul-inspiring 

beam, 
Gilds  the  fair  bosom  of  thy  noble  stream. 


A  SIMILE. 

As  a  smooth,  quiet  lake,  whose   crystal 

wave 
Scarce  ripples  with  the  passing  breeze, 

then  lies 
Mirroring   the   azure   of   the    summer 

skies, 

With  bosom  motionless  and  tranquil,  save 
The  rippling  murmur  of  each  tiny  wave 
Breaking  upon  the  shore ;  the  sand  be 
low, 

Like  liquid  silver,  in  the  sunlight  gleams ; 
And  water-plants  and  pebbles,  white  as 

snow, 

Glow  with  a  brighter  luster  in  its  beams  : 
They  look  so  near  the  surface,  you  would 

think 

To  stretch  an  arm  over  the  water's  brink 
That  you  might  reach  them ;  but  the  lake 

is  deep, 
And  the  still  wave,  so  motionless  and 

clear, 
Can  rouse  its  curling  billows  from  their 

sleep, 
And  dash  in  startled  fury  on  the  ear. 


So  many  a  mind,  like  that  calm  lake,  may 

be 
Deeper  than  the  unpracticed  eye  would 

deem, 

Holding  its  treasures  safe,  while  joyously 
Its  light  waves  dance  beneath  the  sun's 

bright  gleam ; 

But,  when  the  darkened  horizon  foretells 
The  wildness  of  the  coming  tempest's 

strife, 

Undauntedly  the  fearless  bosom  swells, 
To  battle  with  the  adverse  storms  of  life. 


A  THOUGHT. 

How  like  our  childhood's  tears  and  smiles, 

Its  rainbow  hopes,  its  April  showers, 
Are  life's  sad  cares,  its  pleasant  wiles, 

Its  bitter  griefs,  its  sunny  hours  ! 
A  child  in  sorrow  bent  her  head, 

A  cloud  of  grief  her  young  brow  shad 
ed— 
"  Ah,  see  !  my  pretty  flower  is  dead, 

The  stem  is  broke,  the  leaves  are  faded." 

She  wept ;  but  while  the  rising  sigh 

Was  trembling  in  her  gentle  bosom, 
She  spied  a  painted  butterfly, 

And  soon  forgot  the  withered  blossom : 
And  thus,  within  the  web  of  life, 

Many  a  golden  thread  is  gleaming ; 
Peace  smooths  the  gloomy  brow  of  strife ; 

Through  sorrow's  night  hope's  star  is 
beaming. 


FRANCES    S.  LOCKE. 


FRANCES  SPRENGLE,  a  native  of  northern  Ohio,  was  born  about  1830.  The 
town  of  Ashland,  where  much  of  her  childhood  was  spent,  possessed  an  Academy  of 
high  order,  and  there  her  natural  taste  for  literature  was  encouraged  by  the  excellent 
Principal,  Lorin  Andrews,  now  President  of  Kenyon  College,  Gambier,  Ohio.  She 
gave  early  promise  of  being  a  child  of  poesy,  as  files  of  the  several  literary  societies' 
elegant  little  "  Caskets "  and  "  Amaranths  "  attest.  She  has  been  a  contributor  to 
most  of  the  magazines  of  the  day,  but  a  volume  of  her  writings  has  never  been  com 
piled.  In  1854,  she  married  Josiah  Locke — then  connected  with  the  Cincinnati  Press 
— and  resided  in  the  "  Queen  City  "  several  years,  but  having  since  adopted  Indiana 
for  their  home,  she  now  lives  at  its  Capital. 


BE  CONSIDERATE. 

OH  !  if  we  knew  what  simple  things 
Oft  cheer  the  hearts  of  others, 

We'd  frequent  find  our  spirit-springs 
Brimful  of  bliss,  my  brothers. 

A  cheerful  smile,  a  pleasant  word, 
Which  we  can  always  give, 


Perchance    some 
stirred 


drooping    soul    hath 


With  strength  to  love  and  live. 


An  act  may  be  by  us  unmarked, 
But  kenned  by  watchers  near ; 

The  song  which  we  unheeding  sing 
May  strike  another's  ear. 

If  we  but  give  our  "widow's  mite," 
To  aid  the  general  weal, 

To  help  along  the  cause  of  Right, 
How  angel-like  we  feel. 


THE  TRUE  LIFE. 

DREAMING  oft  and  dreaming  ever, 
Living  in  the  present  never, 
Building  castles  high  and  airy, 
Filling  them  with  visions  fairy, 
Seeking  much  for  hidden  things, 
Longing  after  magic  wings, 
Spurning  known  and  real  beauty, 
Turning  oft  from  love  and  duty — 
Hearts  play  truant  to  their  sphere, 
Making  us  but  idlers  here. 

We  should  all  be  up  and  doing, 
Virtue's  golden  paths  pursuing, 
Working  hard  and  working  ever, 
Lagging  by  the  wayside  never, 
Putting  all  our  strength  together, 
Pulling  in  harmonious  measure, 
For  each  other's  pleasure  ready, 
With  our  hearts  all  true  and  steady  ; 
If  this  our  active  life  should  be, 
How  happy  then  and  joyous  we. 


(593) 


594 


FRANCES    S.    LOCKE. 


[1850-60. 


TO  TILL. 

THERE'S  room  for  hosts  of  angels 

In  this  desert  of  a  heart; 
The  grounds  lie  all  in  ruins, 

Where  scarce  a  flower  can  start. 
Then  ho  !  for  emigration  ! 

Sweet  spirits  up  above, 
Come  down  and  help  him  plant  it 

With  all  the  fruits  of  Love. 

Long  time  he  has  been  groping 

Among  the  swamps  of  sin  ; 
Long  time  they  have  been  luring 

His  doubtful  footsteps  in  ; 
But  one,  a  man  and  brother, 

Went  to  the  wanderer's  aid, 
And  on  the  shore  of  safety 

His  trembling  burden  laid. 

A  wreck  of  fallen  greatness, 

God's  image  all  defaced — 
Help,  brother !  help  to  raise  him 

To  where  he  should  be  placed. 
His  soul  is  choked  with  brambles, 

His  brain  is  dull  and  wild ; 
Yet  once  his  life  was  guileless — 

He  was  a  happy  child. 

And  then  a  loving  mother 

Bent  o'er  his  cradle  bed, 
Oft  kissed  her  precious  sleeper, 

And  pillowed  soft  his  head. 
Oh !  friend  and  brother,  help  him, 

He  lieth  in  your  way  ; 
Uplift  the  wronged  and  wretched, 

And  teach  him  how  to  pray. 

There's  land  in  each  one's  bosom, 

That  lieth  waste  apart ; 
Why  should  we  leave  it  barren, 

This  desert  of  the  heart  ? 


'Twill  bring  the  sweetest  flowers, 
If  Love  the  seed  will  strew ; 

'Twill  flush  with  blooms  of  beauty, 
Beneath  affection's  dew. 

Then  ho  !  for  emigration  ! 

Sweet  spirits  up  above, 
Come  down  and  help  us  till  it 

With  instruments  of  Love. 


THE  DAY'S  BURIAL. 

UP  the  zenith  floats  a  cloud, 
White  and  bound  with  gold — 

Like  a  giant  monarch's  shroud 
O'er  the  &ky  unrolled, 

Ready  for  the  royal  dead — 
Ready  to  enfold. 

Slowly  from  the  sloping  West, 

On  their  silver  steeds, 
Ride  the  mourners,  darkly  dress'd — 

Widows  in  their  weeds — 
While  from  out  each  wounded  breast 

Crimson  anguish  bleeds. 

Grander  greatness  never  wept 

In  the  vales  terrestrial ; 
Prouder  pageant  never  swept 

O'er  the  heights  celestial ; 
But  the  funeral  glare  grows  dim, 

Twilight  chants  the  closing  hymn. 

In  the  silent,  solemn  gray, 
All  the  host  of  saintly  stars, 

Launched  in  the  ethereal  wave, 
Tremblingly  begin  to  pray, 

As  they  guard  the  new-made  grave 
Of  the  brilliant,  buried  Day. 


ALBERT   SUTLIFFE. 


ALBERT  SUTLIFFE — a  native  of  Meriden,  Connecticut,  where  he  was  born  about 
the  year  1830 — first  became  known  as  a  poet  through  the  columns  of  the  National 
Era  of  Washington  City.  He  wrote  for  that  journal,  in  its  prosperous  days,  a  few 
poems  descriptive  of  summer  and  autumn  scenes,  which  were  much  admired  for  their 
delicate  word-painting,  expressed  in  melodious  rhythm.  In  1854  Mr.  Sutliffe  became 
a  contributor  to  the  Genius  of  the  West,  at  Cincinnati.  He  was  then  teaching  a  pri 
vate  school  in  Kentucky.  In  1855  he  emigrated  to  the  far  West,  and  now  makes  his 
home  among  the  hills  of  Minnesota,  where  his  mother  resides. 

In  1859  a  thin  volume,  containing  such  of  Mr.  SutlifFe's  poems  as  he  chose  to  col 
lect,  was  published  by  James  Monroe  &  Company,  Boston.  The  poems  selected  for 
these  pages  are  from  that  volume,  excepting  "  Beyond  the  Hills,"  which  is  here  first 
published.  It  is  an  exact  picture  of  scenery  surrounding  his  Minnesota  home. 
None  of  the  younger  poets  of  the  West  have  more  felicitously  described  the  charac 
teristics  of  our  seasons.  Mr.  SutlifFe's  muse  is  inclined  to  sadness,  but  sweetly  in 
clined,  and  not  to  the  detriment  of  either  its  versatility  or  its  power. 


RETROSPECTION. 

BUT  half  the  sky  is  filled  with  stars, 

And  half  the  sky  with  mist ; 
No  moon  to  light  the  waste  of  snows ; 
But  toward  the  West  Orion  glows, 
And  underneath,  the  east  wind  blows 

The  clouds  where  it  doth  list. 

The  mist  creeps  swiftly  on  and  on, 

The  stars  fade  one  by  one ; 
Do  hopes  die  thus  ?  it  cannot  be ; 
There  goes  Orion's  sword-belt,  see  ! 
And  now  no  light  is  left  to  me 

But  memory  alone. 

And  can  we  dream  when  stars  are  dead  ? 

1  ween  it  may  be  so ; 
We    search   the   old   time    through    and 

through ; 
We  think  of  what  we  used  to  do ; 


We  light  our  altar-fires  anew; 
With  half  the  olden  glow. 

Bring  out  the  pictures  of  the  Past, 
That  we  may  look  them  o'er; 

Here  passed  my  childhood,  here  between 

These   high-browed  mountains ;  here  the 
green 

Sloped  riverward  ;  a  pleasant  scene, 
Star-lighted  now  once  more. 

There,  crept  my  childhood  on  to  youth  ; 

Here,  was  a  space  for  tears ; 
Then,  'twas  one  tear  that  hid  the  sun, 
But  now  it  is — ah  !  many  a  one, 
With  floating  mists  or  shadows  dun 

Between  me  and  the  spheres. 


We  dreamed  the  day  out  till  the  stars, 
The  stars  out  till  the  day ; 


(  595  ) 


596 


ALBERT    SUTLIFFE. 


[1850-60. 


We  said,  "  Let  come  the  darker  time  ; 
The  hours  shall  pass  like  pleasant  rhyme ; " 
We  thought  the  nights  all  morning  prime, 
The  stars  would  shine  alway. 

We  tire  of  looking  o'er  the  Past ; 

Our  altar-fires  grow  dim  ; 
We  see  the  snow-clouds  gathering  cold ; 
The  deadlier  mists  around  us  fold  ; 
Ah  !  but  our  hearts  are  over-bold  ; 

How  dense  the  shadows  swim. 

We  look  above  and  look  around, 
The  shadows  touch  our  eyes ; 
We  hear  through  hollow  distance  still 
The  moaning  wind  across  the  hill, 
The  fierce  gust  seeking,  seeking  still, 
Arid  winning  no  replies. 

The  stars  are  out  and  memory  fades ; 

Alas !  what  may  be  done  ! 
We  fold  our  robes  to  keep  aglow 
The  heart-fires,  flickering,  burning  low, 
Chilled  by  the  snow-cloud  and  the  snow, 

And  longing  for  the  sun. 

Behind  us  like  a  place  of  tombs, 

The  Past  lies  sad  and  lone ; 
Before  us,  dreamed-of,  hoped-for,  guess'd, 
And  sloping  downward  unto  rest, 
Glooms  the  broad  Future,  all  unblest, 

Visioned,  but  still  unknown. 

Stand  up,  my  soul,  with  Hope  beside, 
And  search  the  sky  for  stars ! 

It  may  be  that  the  storm  will  cease; 

And  from  the  glorious  starlit  East, 

Some  angel  voice  will  whisper  peace 
Down  through  thy  prison-bars. 

Look  out,  my  soul,  with  courage  high, 

Although  thou  be  but  one ! 
What  if  the  Norland,  blowing  bleak, 
Freeze  all  the  tears  upon  thy  cheek ! 
Look  upward,  if  thou  canst  not  speak, 

And  think,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 


MAY  NOON. 

THE  farmer  tireth  of  his  half-day  toil, 

He  pauseth  at  the  plow, 
He  gazeth  o'er  the  furrow-lined  soil, 

Brown  hand  above  his  brow. 

He  hears,  like  winds  lone-muffled  'mong 

the  hills, 

The  lazy  river  run  ; 
From  shade  of  covert  woods  the  eager  rills 
Bound  forth  into  the  sun. 

t 

The    clustered    clouds   of    snowy    apple- 
blooms, 

Scarce  shivered  by  a  breeze, 
With  odor  faint,  like  flowers  in  feverish 

rooms, 
Fall,  flake  by  flake,  in  peace. 

In  neighboring  fields  with  wearisome  ac 
cord, 

Moist  brows  and  sunburnt  hands, 
The  brothers  of  his  toil  upon  the  sward 

Unloose  the  irksome  bands. 

Straight  through  scant  foliage  of  the  lone 

field-oak, 

The  broad  sun  sheds  its  rays ; 
Wreath  above  wreath  the  towering  cottage 

smoke 
Curls  up  from  hearths  ablaze. 

And  savory  scents  go  forth  upon  the  air, 
From  generous  doors  swung  back, 

While  stout  old  dames  and  gentler  girls 

prepare 
The  cheer  which  doth  not  lack. 

By  threadlike  paths  which  radiate  afield, 

The  fasting  bands  come  in  ; 
And  list !  the  house-fly  round  the  sweets 
unsealed 

Maketh  a  hungry  din. 

'Tis  labor's  ebb ;  a  hush  of  gentle  joy, 
For  man,  and  beast,  and  bird ; 


1850-60.] 


ALBERT    SUTLIFFE. 


597 


The  quavering  songster  ceases  its  employ ; 
The  aspen  is  not  stirred. 

But  Nature  hath  no  pause;  she  toileth 

still; 

Above  the  last-year  leaves 
Thrusts  the  lithe  germ,  and  o'er  the  ter 
raced  hill 
A  fresher  carpet  weaves. 

From  many  veins  she  sends  her  gathered 

streams 

To  the  huge-billowed  main, 
Then    through    the    air,    impalpable    as 

dreams, 
She  calls  them  back  again. 


She   shakes  the  dew  from  her  ambrosial 

locks, 

She  pours  adown  the  steep 
The  thundering  waters ;  in  her  palm,  she 

rocks 
The  flower-throned  bee  to  sleep. 

Smile    in  the  tempest,  faint   and   fragile 

man, 

And  tremble  in  the  calm ! 
God  plainest  shows  what  great  Jehovah 

can, 
In  these  fair  days  of  balm. 


JUNE. 

THE  livelong  day,  this  summer  weather, 

Chased  by  the  zephyr  fleet, 
The  light  and  the  shadow  go  together 


Over  the  browning  wheat. 


And  after  the  staring  daytime  closes, 
Passionless,  white,  and  high, 

The  moon  peeps  into  the  elvish  roses, 
Out  of  her  native  sky. 


Under  the  hill  where  the  sun  shines  dimmer, 
Shrunk  from  the  eager  beam, 

The  brook  goes  on,  with  a  fitful  glimmer, 
And  music  for  a  dream. 

Over  the  groves  and  moistened  meadows 
The  steady  gray  hawks  wing, 

And  down  below,  in  the  shifting  shadows, 
The  merry  small  birds  sing. 

My  tired  foot,  from  the  broad  sun  going, 

Presseth  the  curling  moss, 
And  my  eye   doth  see,  'mid   the   green 
leaves  showing, 

The  fair  clouds  flit  across. 


OCTOBER. 

Now  the  middle  autumn  days, 
'Neath  a  blue  luxurious  sky, 

Over  woods  and  traveled  ways, 
With  their  golden  glories  lie. 

Now  the  oak  that  stands  afield, 

Royal  on  a  dais  brown, 
Shows  its  kingly  purple  shield 

Like  the  jewels  of  a  crown. 

In  the  late  September  rains 

Dark  the  night  and  dim  the  day ; 

Rings  of  mist  shut  in  the  plains, 
And  the  dawns  were  sad  and  gray. 

But  the  sunlight  drove  the  shades 

Over  hill  and  over  stream, 
Far  into  the  stillest  glades, 

Where  the  owlets  dream  and  dream. 

Where  the  blue  sky  stoopeth  down, 
It  hath  won  a  golden  edge, 

O'er  the  corn-fields  square  and  brown, 
With  their  line  of  crimson  hedge. 

Plainly  heard,  the  pheasant's  drum 
Falleth  through  the  air  of  morn ; 


598 


ALBERT    SUTLIFFE. 


[1850-60. 


Striking  all  the  echoes  dumb 

Pipes  the  quail  beyond  the  corn. 

Silent  doth  the  river  run, 

Lapsing  to  the  silent  sea, 
Through  the  shadows,  through  the  sun, 

Neither  sadly  nor  in  glee ; 

Past  the  inlets,  past  the  bays, 
Dreaming  in  and  out  at  coves ; 

Silver  in  the  meadow  ways ; 
Golden  underneath  the  groves. 

Children  whom  no  sorrow  grieves, 
Loiter  on  the  way  to  school, 

Watching  how  the  crimson  leaves 
Flutter  down  into  the  pool. 

Every  thing  the  softer  seems  ; 

Gentlier  doth  the  worldling  speak, 
Tarrying  in  the  land  of  dreams 

With  glad  eye  and  flushing  cheek. 

And  the  matron  far  in  years, 
Moveth  with  a  graver  grace, 

All  her  by-gone  hopes  and  fears 
Grouped  and  chastened  in  her  face. 

Oh,  ye  days,  I  may  not  speak 
All  your  teachings  unto  me  ; 

Ye  are  balm  to  hearts  that  break, 
Oil  unto  the  troubled  sea. 

I  am  gliding  down  the  stream ; 

Ye  are  ranged  on  either  side ; 
Can  I  pause  awhile  to  dream  ? 

Nay  !  I  cannot  stem  the  tide ! 

For  I  hear  a  noise  of  pain, 

Roar  of  winds  and  rush  of  waves, 

Dashing  o'er  a  sea  of  storms, 
Beating  on  a  shore  of  graves. 


THE  CHURCH. 

THE  antique  church, — it  shrinketh  back 

Ten  paces  from  the  green  ; 
The  emerald  neat  doth  clasp  its  feet, 

The  quiet  graves  between  ; 
Strong-buttressed  like  a  castle  old 

That  hath  its  fill  of  wars ; 
By  night  and  day,  gold  eve  or  gray, 

It  points  the  place  of  stars. 

It  clasps  a  holy  silence  in, 

Six  days  of  every  seven, 
And  then  an  angel  organist 

Plays  interludes  of  heaven ; 
And  in  the  hushing  of  the  days, 

Throughout  the  after  week, 
Unto  the  golden-kissing  sun 

It  holds  its  dusky  cheek. 

Within,  the  moted  sunlight  falls 

On  carving  rich  and  brown, — 
Without,  far  off,  hums  on  and  on, 

The  knavery  of  the  town ; 
Within,  the  light  makes  purely  dim 

The  niches  of  the  saints, — 
Without,  the  earth  dotli  flout  the  heaven, 

With  immemorial  plaints. 

A  porphyry  angel  o'er  the  font, 

Its  breadth  of  plume  extends ; 
A  purple  light,  serenely  bright, 

Rests  on  it  as  it  bends ; 
It  hath  no  haste  to  stir  its  wings, 

Dun  eve  or  dawning  pale, — 
Its  steady  shade,  like  sorrow  laid, 

Doth  cross  the  chancel  rail. 

Old  friendships  snap ;  love's  golden  bowl 

Lies  shattered  in  my  hold  ; 
Yet  still  God's  granite  watchman  thrills 

The  chords  that  thrilled  of  old, 
And  still  may  its  evangel  be, 

Through  endless  waning  moons, 
While  yet  its  tell-tale  brazen  face 

Clangs  out  its  hourly  tunes. 


1850-60.] 


ALBERT    SUTUFFE. 


599 


BEYOND  THE  HILLS. 

WITHIN  the  hills,  my  little  world 

Lies  green  beneath  the  summer  suns ; 

Slow-curving  down  the  easy  slopes, 
A  muffled  streamlet  runs. 

Beyond  the  horizon's  wavy  line 

The  clouds  come  up,  and  pause,  and  go, 

Calm-pleasured  in  the  depths  of  blue, 
And  sailing  onward  slow. 

Upon  the  hills  the  shadows  lie, 

Dim  westward  trails   when  comes  the 

light, 
Firm-purposed,  eastward  traveling, 

And  fading  into  night. 

All  fair,  beyond  conception  fair, 
When  climbing  unto  yonder  peak, 

Where  leans  the  silver  birch-tree  forth, 
And  quivers  as  to  speak 

Unto  its  brethren  o'er  the  vale, 

Adhering  to  the  scanty  soil, 
Upholding  seeming  fruitless  lives 

Against  the  winds  with  toil. 

How  fair,  beyond  conception  fair, 

The  sequent  range  of  cultured  farms, 

The  golden  fields  in  firm  embrace 
Of  the  fair  river's  arms  ! 

And  all  my  world  that  lies  within 

These  hills,  and  yon  green  line  of  woods, 

O'er  which  in  prime  of  summer  time 
The  warmed  heaven  broods. 

But  far  beyond  the  intrenched  hills 
My  yearning  soul  takes  eager  wing, 

Keeping  imagination's  flowers 
Sweet  with  eternal  Spring. 

I  trace  a  mighty  river  on, 

Past  cities  bathing  weary  feet, 

And  millions  grimed  with  toil  and  dust 
And  fainting  in  the  street ; 


Estates  innumerous,  and  wilds 

Vine-vailed  from  summer  heats  intense, 
Dim  groves  of  orange,  sunny-bathed 

In  tropic  indolence, 


Until  the  deep  unending  sea 

In  sultry  summer  sweetly  smiles, 

Swelling  and  fulling  ceaselessly 
About  its  thousand  isles. 


Before  me  stretch  the  leagues  of  coast, 
The  lifting  mist,  the  white-sailed  ships ; 

Arid  past  its  towers  of  fleecy  cloud 
The  blue  sky  calmly  dips. 

I  spread  my  sails  ;  away  !  away ! 

My  native  shores  grow  dim ;  are  gone ; 
Night  chases  day,  day  chases  night, 

Until  some  sudden  spice-blown  dawn, 

To  left  and  right  the  island  palms 
Nod  golden  in  the  coming  light, 

And  slowly  westward,  dragon-plumed, 
Retreats  the  dusky  night. 

The  great  sea  swallows  up  its  isles ; 

The  waving  palms  go  westward  down ; 
Through  zones  of  light  and  shadow  on, 

Bright  noons  and  twilights  brown, 

Until  the  shores  of  fabled  Ind 

From  low-laid  cloud  take  gradual  shape, 
And  gliding  o'er  some  glassy  bay, 

Beyond  a  pleasant  cape, 

I  hear  the  muezzin's  call  to  prayer 
Across  the  noonday  waters  still, 

And  past  the  town,  and  fields  of  rice, 
The  pagod  crowns  the  hill. 

The  banyan's  cool  and  dim  arcades 
Retire  to  cooler,  dimmer  deeps, 

The  parrot  flashes  through  the  shades, 
The  vine  in  endless  net-work  creeps : 


600 


ALBERT    SUTLIFFE. 


[1850-60. 


The  grand,  world-crowning  Himalay, 
Cloud-girdled  underneath  its  snows  ; 

Far  down,  the  enamored  bulbul  wooes 
His  own  deep-hearted  rose. 

My  hasty  sails  are  fancy -blown  ; 

I  trace  the  huge  unshaded  Nile, 
From  springs  in  Ethiop  lands  remote, 

Past  cabalistic  pile, 

Past  questioning  sphinx,  'mid  wastes  of 
sand, 

And  carven  temple,  dark  and  dread, 
With  old-world  theories  overgrown, 

Deep-graven,  but  all  dead : 

The  wonder  of  the  pyramids, 
Clear-cut  upon  the  desert  line, 

Relics  of  Isis,  and  the  days 
When  Nature  was  divine. 

Again  away  ;  through  polar  night 

The  white  bear  o'er  the  ice-field  steals, 

And  reddening  in  the  polar  light, 
The  iceberg  snaps  and  reels. 

The  huge  whale  spouts  upon  the  lee ; 

Far  off  the  hutted  Esquimaux 
Their  hardy  coursers  drive  with  speed, 

Across  the  wastes  of  snow. 

I  turn  the  dark,  historic  page ; 

The  weary  present  fades  away, 
Athens  and  lofty-pillared  Rome 

Are  cities  of  to-day. 

On  miracles  of  classic  art 

The    southern    splendors    glance    and 

gleam ; 
On  Plato,  with  great  thought  and  heart, 

In  groves  of  Academe  ; 

On  Grecian  fleet  by  Salamis ; 

On  bust  and  nymph  of  peerless  grace ; 
On  fountain,  plinth,  and  peristyle, 

And  leering  cynic's  face. 


The  sunshine  in  the  streets  of  Rome 
Is    stained    with    blood ;    the    trumpet 
sounds, 

And  o'er  the  Coliseum's  sand 
The  nervy  lion  bounds. 

The  elder  Brutus  stands  apart, 

With  heel  firm-pressed,  as  if  he  trod 

The  father  underneath  his  feet ; 
Stern-faced  like  any  god. 

The  younger  Brutus,  musing  late, 
Vexed  by  his  foe's  intrusive  shade, 

Looks  grandly  soulful  through  the  mist 
The  ebbing  years  have  made. 

And  Coriolanus,  browed  with  scorn. 
With  curling  lip  and  haughty  soul, 

Watches  the  wild  plebeian  surge, 
Like  restless  sea  waves  roll. 

In  intervals  of  soothing  rest 

I  turn  the  poet's  charmed  leaves ; 

Through  bowers  and  groves  of  sweetest 

song 
The  wind  of  autumn  grieves. 

'Mid  grots,  and  blissful  silences, 

The  poet's  voice  falls  still  and  clear, 

With  note  of  hopeful  prophecy, 
Or  warning  voice  of  fear, — 

Or  still  small  voice  of  sympathy, 
Impassioned  with  human  woe, 

Falling  upon  the  marble  heart 
Like  fire  flakes  upon  snow. 

Thus  do  I  burst  the  intrenched  hills, 
These  cerements  of  useless  clay, 

And,  like  the  fantasy  of  dreams, 
All  things  around  me  play  ; 

Until  the  hills  re-gather  shape, 

The  shadows  creep,  the  slow  dews  fall, 

The  sky  re-opens  holy  eyes, 
And  sparkles  over  all. 


MATTIE   GRIFFITH. 


IN  the  year  1853,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York,  published  a  thin  volume  entitled 
"  Poems  by  Mattie  Griffith."  Miss  Griffith  was  then  a  favorite  contributor  to  the 
Louisville  Journal  She  is  a  Kentucky  poet  "  to  the  manor  born,"  her  birthplace 
being  Louisville,  we  believe.  She  is  now  residing  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  and  is 
writing  poems  and  tales  for  The  Anti-Slavery  Standard,  and  other  New  York  and 
Boston  journals. 


CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 

AN  hour  ago  the  music  of  the  wood 

And  the  low  chant  of  waves  came  o'er 

the  glade, 

But  now  no  murmur  breaks  the  solitude, 
And  a  stern  weight  on  Nature's  pulse 

seems  laid. 
Yon  moon  has  seen  the  death  of  countless 

years 
From  her  blue  air-halls  in  the  midnight 

sky> 

And  lo !    her   dim,  sad   eye   looks   down 

through  tears 
Upon  the  earth  to  see  another  die. 


Silent  and  beautiful,  she  sits  alone, 

The  priestess  of  the  sky,  and  in  her  pale 
Sweet  light  a  spell  of  mournful  love  seems 

thrown 

» 

Upon  the  plain,  the  forest,  and  the  vale ; 

It  is  the  Old  Year's  death-hour,  but  no  sob 

Comes  on  the  night-air  from  his  dying 

breast ; 
Serene  and  calm  and    still,  without  one 

throb 
Of  agony,  he  passes  to  his  rest. 

Yet  tears  are  in  our  hearts  and  in  our  eyes 
'Mid  the  strange  stillness  of  this  solemn 


night, 


(  601  ) 


While  here  we  sit  and  muse  upon  the  ties 

The  dying  year  has  severed  in  his  flight; 

Aye,  as  his  last  breath  on  the  air  is  flung, 

Our  hearts  are  heavy  and  our  eyes  are 

dim 
With  thinking  of  the  woes  that  with  him 

sprung 
To  life — alas  !  they  cannot  die  with  him. 

Like  the  cold  shadow  of  a  demon's  plume, 

A  chilling  darkness  that  will  not  depart 

Lies  on  our  thoughts  and  casts  its  sullen 

gloom 

Around  the  dearest  idols  of  the  heart ; 
We  learn  in  youth  the  stern  and  bitter 

lore 

That  comes  of  ruined  hopes  and  dark 
ened  dreams, 
And  nature  has  no  magic  to  restore 

The  glory  of  the  spirit's  shadowed  gleams. 

Scattered  and  broken  on  life's  desert  wide, 
The  soul's  best  gems,  its  brightest  treas 
ures  shine, 

And  memories  of  joy  and  love  and  pride 
Lie   dim    upon   the   bosom's    shattered 

shrine ; 
We  gaze  into  the  future,  but  a  shade 

on  its  visions,  they  are  not  so  bless'd 
And  beautiful  as  those  the  year  has  laid 
Within  the  heart's  deep  sepulcher  to  rest. 


602 


MATTIE    GRIFFITH. 


[1850-60. 


The  music  of  our  being's  rushing  stream 
Is  growing  sad  and  sadder  day  by  day, 
And  life  is  but  a  troubled  fever-dream 
That  soon  must  vanish  from  our  soul's 

array ; 
But  when  this  wild  and  fearful  dream  is 

past, 
The  mounting  spirits  of  the  pure  will 

rove 
Above  the  cloud,  the  whirlwind,  and  the 

blast, 
In  the  bright  Eden  of  immortal  love. 

Farewell,  Old  Year !  while  sorrow  dims  our 

eyes, 
We  bless  thee  for  the  lessons  thou  hast 

given ; 
Though  thou  hast  filled  earth's  atmosphere 

with  sighs, 

We  trust  that  thou  hast  brought  us  near 
er  heaven  ; 
Some  stars  that  gleam  along  thy  shadowy 

track 
Will  shine  upon  our  hearts  with  holy 

power, 

And  oft  our  pilgrim-spirits  will  come  back 
To  muse  and  weep  o'er  this  thy  dying 
hour. 

Old  Year,  farewell!  the  myriad   flowers 

that  thou 

Hast  blighted  will  again  in  beauty  bloom, 
And  breathing  millions  thou  hast  caused 

to  bow 
In  death,  will  rise  in  triumph  from  the 

tomb. 
Not  thus,  Old  Year,  with  thee.     Thy  life, 

now  fled, 

No  power  of  God  or  Nature  will  restore ; 
The  graves  of  years  may  not  give  up  their 

dead, 
And  thou  wilt  live,  oh  never,  nevermore. 

Farewell !    forever   fare    thee    well,    Old 

Year! 
The  gentle  Angel,  missioned  at  thy  birth 


To  keep  life's  records  through  thy  sojourn 

here, 
Has  poised  her  shining  wing  and  left 

the  earth ; 

Oh  may  the  words  of  love  and  mercy  fall, 
Heaven's  owrn  bless'd  music,  on  each  err 
ing  soul, 
When  on   His  burning  throne  the  Judge 

of  all 
Shall  to  our  eyes  unfold  the  awful  scroll. 


LEAVE  ME  TO  MYSELF  TO-NIGHT. 

Go,  leave  me  to  myself  to-night ! 
My  smiles  to-morrow  shall  be  bright, 
But  now  I  only  ask  to  weep, 
Alone,  alone,  in  silence  deep. 

Go,  go  and  join  the  wreathing  dance, 
With  floating  step  and  joyous  glance ; 
But  leave,  oh  leave  me  here  to  weep 
O'er  holy  memory's  guarded  keep. 

Within  my  soul's   unfathomed  tide 
Are  pearls  and  jewels  I  must  hide, 
Deep  from  the  rude  and  vulgar  eyes 
Of  Fashion's  wild,  gay  votaries. 

I  ask  not  sympathy,  I  ask 

But  solitude  for  rny  dear  task 

Of  watching  o'er  those  gems  that  gleam 

Deep  in  my  soul's  unfathomed  stream. 

Ah !  tears  are  to  my  weary  heart 
Like  dew  to  flowers — then  do  not  start, 
Nor  deem  me  weak,  that  thus  I  weep 
In  silence  lone,  and  dark  and  deep. 

'Tis  but  a  few  brief  hours  that  I 
Would  from  the  glad  and  joyous  fly, 
And  then,  like  them,  I'll  wear  a  brow 
Free  from  the  tears  that  stain  it  now. 

But  oh  !  to-night  I  needs  must  weep, 
And  deeply  all  my  senses  steep 
In  the  sweet  luxury  of  tears, 
Shed  over  the  shrine  of  buried  years. 


HORACE   RUBLEE. 


HORACE  RUBLEE,  to  whom  politics  are  now  greater  than  poetry,  holds  the  office  of 
State  Librarian  in  Wisconsin,  and  is  the  editor  of  the  State  Journal,  published  at  Madi 
son.  He  was  born,  about  thirty  years  ago,  in  Vermont ;  he  came  to  Wisconsin  at  the 
age  of  ten,  and  is  consequently  one  of  the  "oldest  inhabitants." 

We  believe  he  no  longer  poetizes,  and  attributes  his  former  poetry  to  youthful  im 
pressibility  and  inexperience.  The  following  pleasant  verses  indicate  the  possession 
of  a  talent  which  should  yet  be  cultivated. 


STEADFASTNESS. 

O  THOU  who  in  the  ways 
Of  this  rough  world  art  faint  and  weary 

grown, 

Thy  drooping  head  upraise, 
And  let  thy  heart  be  strong ;  for,  better 

days, 

Trust  still  that  future  time  will  unto  thee 
make  known. 

In  darkness,  danger,  pain, 
Despondency,  misfortune,  sorrow,  all 

The  woes  which  we  sustain, 
Still  be  thou  strong,  from  idle  tears  re 
frain, 

And  yet  upon  thy  brow,  in  time,  success 
shall  fall. 

Banish  that  viewless  fiend, 
Whose  horrid  presence  men  have  named 

Despair ; 

Let  all  thy  efforts  tend 
Through  life  unto  some  great,  some  no 
ble  end, 

And  life  itself  will  soon  a  nobler  aspect 
wear. 


As  the  soft  breath  of  Spring 
Robes  in  bright  hues  the  dark  old  Earth 

again, 

So  would  such  purpose  bring 
Thee  back  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  and 

fling 

Joy  on  thy  aching  heart  unfelt  through 
years  of  pain. 

Like  the  untrembling  ray 
Of  some  clear  planet,  shining  through 

the  night, 

Pursue  thy  steady  way  ; 
And  though  through  gloom  and   dark 
ness  it  may  lay, 

Thou  shalt  at  last  emerge  and  tread  a  path 
of  light. 

But  not  by  weak  endeavor, 
By  fickle  course,  faint-heartednesss,  and 

fear, 

Canst  thou  expect  to  sever 
The  massy   links  of  error's  chain ;  for 

never 

Did   they    before   aught   else    save   stout 
strokes  disappear. 


To  the  Steadfast  alone 
The  matchless  glory  of  her  unvailed  form 


(603) 


604 


HORACE    RUBLE  E. 


[1850-60. 


Does  Truth  make  fully  known ; 
Who  would   her  perfect   loveliness  be 

shown, 

His  fixed  design  must  bear,  unmoved  in 
calm  or  storm. 

Go,  then,  and  from  the  wells 
Of  ancient  lore — from  bards  and  sages 

old, 

And  from  the  chronicles 
Of  deeds  heroic,  gather  potent  spells 
Such  as  shall  nerve  thy  soul  to  action  high 
and  bold. 


LONGINGS. 

I  LONG  for  some  in  tenser  life, 
Some  wilder  joy,  some  sterner  strife ! 
A  dull  slow  stream,  whose  waters  pass 
Through  weary  wastes  of  drear  morass, 
Through  reptile-breeding  levels  low — 
A  sluggish  ooze,  and  not  a  flow — 
Choked  up  with  fat  and  slimy  weeds, 
The  current  of  my  life  proceeds. 

Once  more  to  meet  the  advancing  sun, 
Earth  puts  her  bridal  glories  on'; 
Once  more  beneath  the  summer  moons, 
The  whippowillher  song  attunes  ; 
Once  more  the  elements  are  rife 
With  countless  forms  of  teeming  life ; 
Life  fills  the  air  and  fills  the  deeps  ; 
Life  from  the  quickened  clod  up-leaps  ; 
But  all  too  feeble  is  the  ray 
That  glances  on  our  northern  day  ; 
And  man,  beneath  its  faint  impress, 
Grows  sordid,  cold,  and  passionless. 

I  long  to  greet  those  ardent  climes, 
Where  the  sun's  burning  heat  sublimes 
All  forms  of  being,  and  imparts 
Its  fervor  even  to  human  hearts; 
To  see  up-towering,  grand  and  calm, 
The  king  of  trees,  the  lordly  palm, 


And,  when  night  darkens  through  the  skies, 
Watch  the  strange  constellations  rise : 
The  floral  pomps,  the  fruits  of  gold, 
The  fiery  life  I  would  behold  ; 
The  swart  warm  beauties,  luscious-lipped, 
With  hearts  in  passion's  lava  dipped ; 
Nature's  excess  and  overgrowth ; 
The  light  and  splendor  of  the  South  ! 

Or,  if  it  be  my  lot  to  bear 
This  pulseless  life,  this  blank  despair, 
Waft  me,  ye  winds,  unto  those  isles 
Round  which  the  far  Pacific  smiles ; 
Where,  through  the  sun-bright  atmosphere, 
Their  purple  peaks  the  mountains  rear ; 
Where  Earth  is  garmented  in  light, 
And  with  unfading  Spring  is  bright. 
Then,  if  my  life  must  be  a  dream, 
Without  a  plan,  without  a  scheme, 
From  purpose  as  from  action  free, 
A  dream  of  beauty  it  shall  be. 


DREAM-FACES. 

THE  faces  that  we  see  in  dreams 
Are  radiant,  as  if  with  gleams 
From  some  diviner  world  than  this : 
A  sweeter,  sadder  tenderness 
Darkens  the  depths  of  loving  eyes : 
A  more  seraphic  beauty  lies 
On  lip  and  brow,  than  ever  yet 
The  gaze  of  waking  mortal  met. 

0  blessed  mystery  of  sleep! 

That  can  recall  from  out  the  deep 

Of  vanished  years,  and  from  the  tomb, 

The  loved  and  lost  to  life  and  bloom : 

That  makes  each  memory  a  bright 

Reality,  and  fills  the  night 

With  gladness  and  sweet  thoughts  that  stay 

Like  lingering  perfume  through  the  day. 


ROSA   VERTNER  JOHNSON. 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON,  whose  real  maiden  name  was  Griffith,  but  who  was 
the  adopted  child  of  a  prominent  and  wealthy  citizen  of  Mississippi,  named  Vertner, 
was  born  at  Natchez.  Her  childhood  home  was  at  a  romantic  country-seat  belonging 
to  her  adopted  parents,  near  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi.  She  was  educated,  however, 
at  Lexington,  Kentucky,  and  began  there  to  write  poems  for  the  Louisville  Journal, 
which  were  much  admired  for  their  delightful  rhythm  and  beautiful  imagery. 

In  1856,  George  D.  Prentice  wrote  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Johnson  and  her  poetry,  to 
accompany  a  portrait  in  Graham's  Magazine,  from  which  we  quote  : 

'•  Rosa,"  during  all  the  years  of  her  life,  has  been  a  favored  child  of  fortune,  living  in  wealth 
and  luxury,  a  star  of  fashion,  and  the  center  of  a  very  large  circle  of  devoted  friends  and  ad 
mirers Probably  few  ladies,  situated  as  she  has  been,  would  ever  have  given  much 

thought  to  literature.  But  heaven  made  her  a  poet,  and  all  the  fascinations  and  allurements  of 
fashionable  society  have  not  been  able  to  mar  heaven's  handiwork.  The  daughter  of  a  poet  and 
a  man  of  genius,  she  has  written  poetry  almost  from  her  childhood.  She  writes  it  because  she 

must.     It  will  not  be  shut  up  in  her  heart The 

spirit  of  poetry  is  strong  within  her,  and,  if  she  were  not  to  utter  it,  she  would,  like  a  mute  song 
bird,  die  of  imprisoned  melody.  We  have  seen  her  in  festive  halls  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  and, 
although  she  had  ever  a  quick  and  genial  reply  to  the  thousand  flatteries  constantly  breathed  into 
her  ears,  we  have  often  thought  that  she  would  gladly  have  surrendered  all  the  delights  of  such 
occasions  to  be  one  hour  alone,  with  the  Muse  of  her  heart,  beneath  the  starlit  sky,  or  in  the 
beautiful  and  holy  twilight  time. 

In  1858  Ticknor  &  Fields,  Boston,  Massachusetts,  published  a  handsome  duodec 
imo  volume  of  334  pages,  entitled  "  Poems  by  Rosa,"  which  was  received  with  more 
favor  than  her  most  sanguine  friends  anticipated.  Mrs.  Johnson  spent  a  considerable 
share  of  her  earlier  married  life  in  Louisiana,  but  for  several  years  past,  has  adorned 
the  social  circles  of  Lexington  in  winter  as  well  as  in  summer  seasons.  That  delight 
ful  city  is  now  her  permanent  home.  Mr.  Johnson,  a  lawyer  by  profession,  but  prac 
tically  a  planter,  is  a  man  of  liberal  wealth,  who  dispenses  a  generous  hospitality  at 
a  home  whose  mistress  is  eminent  for  beauty  as  well  as  for  poesy  among  even  the 
women  of  Kentucky.  In  the  sketch  previously  quoted  from,  Mr.  Prentice  said  : 

Whether  we  think  of  her  as  she  moves  in  the  social  circle  with  that  graceful  stateliness  with 
which  the  association  of  genius  invests  dignity,  fascinating  one  by  the  blushing  charm  with  which 
her  modesty  responds  to  the  admiration  her  presence  and  her  poetry  inspire  ;  ...  or  as  pouring 
forth  her  rich  thoughts  and  jeweled  fancies  from  the  retirement  of  her  room  to  thrill  and  delight 
the  hearts  of  the  community  ;  or  as  gliding  in  her  tiny  shallop  over  the  deep  blue  lakes,  that  seem 
like  fair  and  lonely  spirits  to  haunt  with  their  solemn  beauty  the  wild  forests  surrounding  her 
Southern  home,  bearing  her  light  fowling-piece  in  her  hand,  and  bringing  down  the  flying  birds  at 
almost  every  shot,  there,  and  every  where,  as  a  woman,  we  delight  to  think  of  her  with  admira 
tion,  and  proudly  do  we  love  to  claim  her  as  a  Western  poetess. 


(  605  ) 


606 


ROSA  VERTNER  JOHNSON. 


[1850-liO. 


THE  SUNSET  CITY. 

I  SAW  a  strange,  beautiful  city  arise 

On  an  island  of  light,  in  the  sapphire  skies, 

AY  hen    the    Sun    in   his    Tyrian    drapery 

dress'd, 
Like  a  shadow  of  God,  floated  down  to  the 

AVest. 

A  city  of  clouds !  in  a  moment  it  grew 
On  an  island  of  pearl,  in  an  ocean  of  blue, 
And  spirits  of  twilight  enticed  me  to  stray 
Through   these  palaces  reared   from  the 

ruins  of  day. 

In  musical  murmurs,  the  soft  sunset  air, 
Like  a  golden-winged  angel,  seemed  calling 

me  there, 
And  my  fancy  sped  on  till  it  found  a  rare 

home, 

A  palace  of  jasper,  with  emerald  dome, 
On  a  violet  strand,  by  a  wide  azure  flood  ; 
And  where  this  rich  City  of  Sunset  now 

stood, 
Methought  some  stray  seraph  had  broken 

a  bar 
From  the  gold  gates  of  Eden  and  left  them 

ajar. 

There  were  amethyst  castles,  whose  turrets 

seemed  spun 
Of  fire  drawn  out  from  the  heart  of  the 


With  columns  of  amber,  and  fountains  of 

light, 
Which  threw  up  vast  showers,  so  chang- 

ingly  bright, 

That  Hope  might  have  stolen  their  ex 
quisite  sheen 

To  weave  in  her  girdle  of  rainbows,  I  ween, 
And  arches  of  glory  grew  over  me  there, 
As    these    fountains    of    Sunset    shot    up 
through  the  air. 

While   I  looked    from    my  cloud-pillared 

palace  afar, 
1  saw  Night  let  fall  one  vast,  tremulous  star, 


On  the  calm  brow  of  Even,  who  then,  in 

return 
For  the  gem  on  her  brow  and  the   dew  in 

her  urn, 
Seemed  draping  the  darkness  and  hiding 

its  gloom 
With  the  rose-colored  curtains  which  fell 

from  her  loom, 
All     bordered    with    purple    and    violet 

dyes, 
Floating  out  like  a  fringe  from  the  vail  of 

the  skies. 

And  lo !  far  away,  on  the  borders  of 
night, 

Rose  a  chain  of  cloud-mountains,  so  won- 
drously  bright, 

They  seemed  built  from  those  atoms  of 
splendor  that  start 

Through  the  depths  of  the  diamond's  crys 
talline  heart, 

When  light  with  a  magical  touch  has  re 
vealed 

The  treasure  of  beams  in  its  bosom  con 
cealed  ; 

And  torrents  of  azure,  all  graceful  and 
proud, 

Swept  noiselessly  down  from  these  mount 
ains  of  cloud. 


But  the  tide  of  the  darkness  came  on  with 

its  flood, 
And  broke  o'er  the  strand  where  my  frail 

palace  stood ; 
While  far  in  the  distance  the  moon  seemed 

to  lave 
Like  a  silver-winged  swan  in  night's  ebon 

wave. 
And  then,  like  Atlantis,  that  isle  of  the 

bless'd, 
Which  in  olden  time  sank  'neath  the  ocean 

to  rest 
(Which  now  the  blue  water  in  mystery 

shrouds), 
Dropped  down  in  the  darkness  this  City 

of  clouds. 


1850-60.] 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON. 


607 


THE  SEA-BIRD'S  TREASURE. 

ON  a  rock  vast  and  hoar, 

By  a  desolate  shore, 
One  bright  eve,  as  I  wandered  alone, 

A  gaunt  sea-bird  I  spied, 

Looking  down  on  the  tide, 
Dark  and  grim,  from  his  wave-beaten  throne 

Mute  and  motionless  there, 

In  the  sun-tinted  air, 
And  with  plumage  as  black  as  the  night, 

That  wild  ocean-bird  seemed 

Like  the  form  of  a  fiend, 
Standing  forth  from  a  background  of  light 

A  gay,  frolicsome  breeze 

Fluttered  over  the  seas, 
And  sang  on  till  the  waters  were  stirred ; 

But  a  strange,  low  lament 

With  its  melody  blent, 
As  1  gazed  on  that  spectral  bird. 

For  lo  !  there  as  he  stood, 
Looking  down  on  the  flood, 

I  beheld  from  his  white  beak  unrolled, 
By  the  warm  summer  air, 
A  long  curl  of  bright  hair, 

A  brown  ringlet,  deep  tinted  with  gold. 

Just  such  ringlets  as  grow 
Above  foreheads  of  snow, 

Overshadowing  earnest  blue  eyes, 

As  the  morning  mist  shrouds, 
With  its  amber-hued  clouds, 

The  deep  light  of  Italian  skies. 

"•  Tell  me,  bird,  didst  thou  go 
Where  the  coral  reefs  grow, 
Around  grottos  of  crystal  and  pearl, 
And  most  ruthlessly  tear 
That  rich,  radiant  liair 
From  the  brow  of  some  fair  shipwrecked 
girl? 

"  Or  where  skeletons  bleach 
On  the  wide  barren  beach. 


When  upheaved  by  the  billowy  brine, 

Of  all  beauty  bereft, 

Was  that  frail  relic  left, 
With  its  life-mocking  luster  to  shine  ? 

"  Was  it  there  thou  didst  find, 
'Mid  the  damp  sea-weed  twined, 

That  rare  curl,  whose  soft  ripples  once  fell 
On  a  breast  pure  and  white ; — 
As  in  midsummer's  light, 

Dropping  down  in  some  stainless  sea-shell? 

"  Strange  and  sad  doth  the  gleam 
Of  that  sunny  tress  seem, 

As  it  floats  o'er  thy  smooth,  sable  plume, 
Like  a  beautiful  ray 
From  the  soul  far  away, 

Trembling  still  round  its  dark  ocean  tomb. 

"  For  thy  mate  didst  thou  bring 

That  frail,  glittering  thing, 
To  be  twined  in  her  storm-beaten  nest, 
As  some  heavenly  thought 
In  its  holiness  wrought 
Through   the   dreams   of    a    sin-tortured 
breast  ? 

"  Does   a  fond  mother  mourn 
For  that  fair  head,  now  shorn 

Of  its  splendor,  where  dark  billows  flow  ? 
Does  the  lullaby  still 
Through  her  memory  thrill, 

That  she  sang  to  her  child  long  ago  ? 

"  Does  she  think  of  that  time, 
When  the  sweet  Sabbath  chime 

Called  her  up  to  the  temple  of  prayer, — 
Of  how  fondly  she  smiled, 
When  that  auburn-haired  child 

Knelt  beside  her  in  purity  there  ?  " 

Even  now  could  she  press 

That  long  glistening  tress 
To  her  sad  breast,  methinks  it  would  know 

That  those  soft  strands  were  shed 

From  the  beautiful  head 
She  had  pillowed  there  long,  long  ago. 


(508 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON. 


[1850-60. 


But  earth's  children  must  grieve : 

Whether  cypress-boughs  weave 
O'er  their  lost  ones,  or  wild  sea-birds  reap 

Their  rich  treasures,  a  moan 

Goeth  up  to  God's  throne, 
From  the  hearts  of  the  many  who  weep. 

Still  I  see  the  rich  curl 

Of  that  fair  shipwrecked  girl, 
Who  lies  shrouded  where  storm -billows  roll. 

And  that  bird  grim  and  gaunt 

Shall  for  evermore  haunt, 
Like  a  phantom,  the  depth  of  my  soul. 


ONE  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

ONE  Summer  night  I  stood  with  thee, 
Beneath  a  full  unclouded  moon  ; 

My  young  heart  then  was  wild  with  glee, 
And  basked  in  pleasure's  golden  noon ; 

My  dark  hair  fell  in  waving  showers 
Upon  my  neck  and  o'er  my  brow, 


But  thou  didst  break  the  spell  too  soon, 

That  made  my  early  youth  so  bright — 
I  found  thee  colder  than  the  moon, 

Whose   beauty  seemed    to    haunt   that 

night 
With  splendor,  till  the  nodding  flowers 

Were  half-awakened  by  its  ray, 
And  startled  birds,  within  their  bowers, 

Sang  sweetly,  dreaming  of  the  day — 

Of  warmth  and  sunlight — foolish  dove  ! 

To  warble  'neath  a  moonlit  sky, 
As  was  my  heart  to  dream  of  love, 

Beneath  the  proud  glance  of  thine  eye, 
That  looked  upon  it  but  to  wake 

Love's  sweetest  music,  wild  and  free, 
To  leave — an  echo,  and  forsake 

The  heart  while  yet  it  thrilled  for  thee. 

Long  years  have  passed,  and  now  once 
more 

I  stand  where  on  that  night  we  stood, — 
Again  the  Summer  moonbeams  pour 

Upon  my  brow  their  silvery  flood ; 
The  same  from  yon  calm  sky  they  come, 

No  change  their  mellow  light  can  tell, 


All  gemmed  with  pearls  and  wreathed  with  |  Since  firgt  upQn  tfae  gpotless 


flowers: 
Their  fragrance  seems  around  me  now. 

A  rose-bud  from  my  bosom  fell, 

As  thus  beneath  the  moon  we  stood ; 
And  thou — ah  !  I  remember  well — 

Didst  raise  and  kiss  the  unconscious  bud. 
But  not  unconscious  was  the  heart 

Forever  thine — forever  true  ; 
And  in  that  hour  the  wish  would  start 

That  I  had  been  a  rose-bud  too. 


I  longed  to  save  it  free  from  blight, 

I  longed  to  keep  that  careless  kiss, 
And  oh  !  I  wished  that  Summer  night, 

With  all  its  brightness  and  its  bliss, 
Could  last  forever ; — 'twas  no  crime, 

When  all  the  moments  fled  so  fast, 
That  I  should  wish  to  fetter  time, 

And  live  them  over  as  they  pass'd. 


Of  Eden's  bowers  they  softly  fell. 

Yon  moon  has  never  lost  one  ray 

Since  first  she  lit  the  earth  and  sea, 
And  I  have  never  turned  away 

One  single  thought  of  love  from  thee, 
Since  on  that  Summer  night  we  met ; 

But  now  the  moonbeams  seem  to  glide 
Around  me  with  a  sad  regret, 

As  if  they  missed  thee  from  my  side. 

The  night-wind,  as  it  sweeps  along, 

I  fancy  has  a  different  tone, 
And  the  low  burden  of  its  song 

Runs  ever  thus  :  "  Alone  !  alone  ! " 
How  changed  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  flowers, 

Since  that  too  well-remembered  time, 
When  hope  sprang  up  to  meet  the  hours, 

And   pleasure   drowned    the   midnight 
chime. 


1850-60.] 


ROSA    VERTNER    JOHNSON. 


609 


ANGEL  WATCHERS. 

ANGEL  faces  watch  my  pillow,  angel  voices 

haunt  my  sleep, 
And  upon  the  winds  of  midnight  shining 

pinions  round  me  sweep; 
Floating  downward  on  the  starlight  tw( 

bright  infant  forms  I  see — 
They  are   mine,  my  own    bright  darlings 

come  from  heaven  to  visit  me. 

Earthly  children  smile  upon  me,  but  those 

little  ones  above, 
Were  the  first  to  stir  the  fountains  of 

mother's  deathless  love, 
And,  as  now  they  watch  my  slumber,  while 

their  soft  eyes  on  me  shine, 
God  forgive  a  mortal  yearning  still  to  call 

his  angels  mine. 

Earthly  children  fondly  call  me,  but  no 

mortal  voice  can  seem 
Sweet  as   those  that  whisper  "  Mother ! ' 

'mid  the  glories  of  my  dream ; 
Years  will  pass,  and  earthly  prattlers  cease 

perchance  to  lisp  my  name, 
But   my  angel   babies'  accents   shall    be 

evermore  the  same. 

And  the  bright  band  now  around  me,  from 

their  home  perchance  will  rove, 
In  their  strength  no  more   depending  on 

my  constant  care  and  love  ; 
But  my  first-born  still  shall  wander,  from 

the  sky  in  dreams  to  rest 
Their  soft  cheeks  and  shining  tresses  on  an 

earthly  mother's  breast. 

Time   may   steal  away  the  freshness,  or 

some  whelming  grief  destroy 
All  the  hopes  that  erst  had  blossomed,  in 

my  summer-time  of  joy  ; 
Earthly  children  may  forsake  me,  earthly 

friends  perhaps  betray, 
Every  tie  that  now  unites  me  to  this  life 

may  pass  away  ; — 


But,  unchanged,  those  angel  watchers,  from 

their  blessed  immortal  home, 
Pure  and  fair,  to  cheer  the  sadness  of  my 

darkened  dreams  shall  come, 
And  I  cannot  feel  forsaken,  for,  though 

'reft  of  earthly  love, 
Angel  children  call  me  "Mother!"  and 

my  soul  will  look  above. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  PRAYER. 

'MiD   the   deep  and  stifling  sadness,  the 

stillness  and  the  gloom, 
That  hung  a  vail  of  mourning  round  my 

dirnly-lighted  room, 
I  heard   a  voice  at  midnight,  in  strange 

tones  of  anguish,  say : 
"  Come  near  me,  dearest  mother!     Now, 

my  God,  O  let  me  pray  !  " 

***** 
He  prayed — and  dumb  with  anguish  did 

my  trembling  spirit  wait, 
Till  that  low  wail  had  entered  at  the  ever 
lasting  gate  ; 
And  then  I  cried,  "  O  Father !  throngs  of 

angels  dwell  with  thee, 
And  he  is  thine — but  leave  him  yet  a  little 

while  with  me! 

'  Two  buds  has  Azrael  plucked  from  out 

the  garden  of  my  love, 
And  placed  them  in  the  living  wreath  that 

spans  thy  throne  above ; 
Twice  o'er  love's  consecrated  harp  have 

swept  his  cold,  dark  wings, 
And  when  I  touch  it  now,  alas !  there  are 

two  broken  strings. 

'  Twice    have    his    strong,    sharp    arrows 

pierced  the  lambs  within  my  fold, 
And  now  in  his  unerring  grasp   another 

shaft  behold ! " 
Two  prayers  went  up  at  midnight — and 

the  last  so  full  of  woe, 
That  God  did  break  the  arrow  set  in  Az- 

rael's  shining  bow. 


39 


JULIA   AMANDA   WOOD. 


MINNIE  MARY  LEE  is  the  literary  pseudonym  of  a  lady  whose  home  is  in  Sank 
Rapids,  on  the  Mississippi  river,  in  Minnesota.  Her  maiden  name  was  Julia  Amanda 
Sargent.  She  is  a  native  of  New  London,  New  Hampshire,  where  she  was  bora 
about  the  year  1830.  Miss  Sargent  was  married  in  1849,  at  Covington,  Kentucky, 
to  William  Henry  Wood,  a  lawyer.  In  1851  Mr.  Wood  removed  to  Minnesota,  and 
soon  after  was  appointed  Land  Receiver  at  Sauk  Rapids.  He  and  Mrs.  Wood  now 
edit  a  weekly  paper,  published  at  Sauk  Rapids,  called  The  New  Era.  Mrs.  Wood 
has  written  for  various  Western  papers,  and  for  Arthur's  Home  Magazine.  Jane 
G.  Swisshelm,  in  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Wood  for  her  paper,  the  St.  Cloud  Visitor,  said: 
"  She  appears  to  be  one  of  the  very  few  literary  women  who  are  happy  in  their  domestic 
relations,  and  who  have  not  fled  to  the  pen  to  get  away  from  the  pressing  conscious 
ness  of  some  crushing  misery.  Her  only  great  sorrow  appears  to  have  been  the 
death  of  her  first-born,  which  leaves  her  but  one  child,  a  bright  boy. 

"  Her  pen  has  been  an  important  means  of  making  known  the  great  natural  beauty 
and  many  resources  of  her  adopted  land." 


HER  GLOVE. 

IT  is  the  glove  she  wore  so  long  ago, 
That  fitted  daintily  her  hand  of  snow, 
The  hand  whose  clasp  it  was  such  joy  to 
know. 


She  was  a  being  radiant  as  the  dawn 
When  it  comes  forth  with  flush   of  glory 

on; 
O,  how  like  night  it  was  when  she  was 

gone! 

She   was   the    queen    of   all   our  festive 

mirth; 
To  win  her  smile,  our  greatest  care  was 

worth, 
For  never  was  a  sweeter  smile  on  earth. 


How  beauteous  flowed  down  to  her  shoul 
ders  fair 

The  glorious  wealth  of  her  abundant  hair, 
Shading  a  face  such  as  the  angels  wear. 

Her  name  was  Emily,  a  treasured  name ; 
My  pulses  thrill  whene'er  I  hear  the  same, 
I  spring  to  meet  one,  as  whene'er  she  came. 

This  glove  has  brought  her  back  so  clear 

to-day, 

Until  her  presence  doth  around  me  play, 
As  if  her  spirit  had  just  passed  this  way. 

Some  years  have  gone  since  clods  pressed 

coldly  down 

Upon  those  starry  eyes  of  softest  brown, 
But   seas    of    time   cannot   her   memory 


drown. 


(610) 


1850-60.] 


JULIA    AMANDA    WOOD. 


611 


Spanned  by  the  river  of  returnless  tide, 
The    space   between   us   is    not    far   nor 

wide; 
I  hope  to  meet  her  on  the  other  side. 


PRAYER  FOR  MY  DYING  CHILD. 

SINCE  I  cannot  save  thee,  darling, 

Since  my  yearning  prayer  is  vain, 
While  my  heart  so  bleeding,  broken, 

Pours  o'er  thee  its  tearful  rain, 
Bends  my  soul  before  the  altar 

Of  our  Father's  golden  throne, 
Praying,  O  with  tones  that  falter, 

For  some  soul  to  guide  thine  own. 

Through  the  dark  and  shadowy  valley, 

O'er  the  river  chill  and  wild, 
Up  the  starry  steeps  of  soul-land 

Thou  wouldst  fear  and  faint,  my  child; 
Thou  so  young,  and  mild,  and  tender, 

Full  of  tears  when  mamma's  gone, 
How  couldst  bear  the  radiant  splendor 

That  at  last  should  o'er  thee  dawn  ? 

Send  some  spirit,  Father  holy, 

Down  to  guide  my  fainting  dove ; 
There  is  one  among  Thine  angels 

Who  was  once  my  child  of  love ; 
Like  his  eyes  so  blue  and  wondrous, 

Are  the  eyes  of  dying  grace ; 
Browned  hair  like  his,  and  golden, 

Falls  around  her  pallid  face. 

Shall  not  he  with  gentle  coming, 

Fold  his  wing  beside  her  bed, 
Clasp  her  soul  to  his,  so  saintly, 

Ere  we  call  our  blossom  dead  ? 
Ah,  methinks  I  feel  the  presence — 

Now  I  bow  me  to  the  rod ; 
Christ,  give  pardon  for  my  sorrow 

That  my  darlings  are  with  God. 


THERE  IS  A  LIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  light  within  my  soul, 

A  beauteous  gush  of  light, 
That  lately  o'er  me  sweetly  stole, 

Most  wondrously  and  bright — 
That  wraps  me  in  delicious  gleams 

More  purely,  softly,  tender, 
Than  e'er  came  o'er  me  in  the  dreams, 

That  had  their  dawn  in  splendor. 

'Tis  not  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 

All  glorious  though  they  be ; 
It  breaketh  not  from  world  afar 

This  blessed  light  on  me — 
It  is  more  soft,  subduing,  clear, 

Entrancing  in  its  flow, 
Most  like  that  light  of  spirit-sphere 

Which  dawneth  not  below. 

Clouds  never  lower  in  that  pure  clime, 

The  rain-drops  never  fall, 
But  steadily  and  ever  shines 

That  light  most  bright  of  all. 
It  is  the  light  that  each  fond  heart 

Doth  kindle  by  its  love, 
And  who  shall  say  this  is  not  part 

Of  all  the  bliss  above  ? 

0  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky,  and  air, 
Are  lighter  for  this  light, 

And  even  birds  and  flowers  fair 
Are  more  than  ever  bright. 

1  tremble  in  its  presence  sweet 

That  every  ill  doth  banish, 
Lest,  'mid  all  things  so  frail  and  fleet, 
This,  too,  should  darkly  vanish. 

Thou  chosen  one,  who  giv'st  this  light 

O'er  all  my  being  thrown, 
Without  which  day  is  darkest  night, 

Thou — beautiful — my  own — 
O  wilt  thou.  in  the  coming  years, 

Be  my  sole  light  as  now. 
And  all  the  way  through  smiles  and  tears 

Give  sunshine  to  my  brow  ? 


GORDON  A.  STEWART. 


GORDON  A.  STEWART  was  born  on  the  eighteenth  of  April,  1833,  in  southern 
Ohio,  and  has  always,  by  residence,  literary  effort  and  affection,  been  identified  with 
the  interests  of  the  State  and  of  the  West.  He  has  been  associate  editor  of  the  Hardin 
Republican,  but  is  now  engaged  at  Kenton,  in  the  practice  of  the  law,  to  which  he  was 
admitted  in  1855.  A  year  or  two  afterward,  he  was  married ;  but  his  young  wife,  to 
whom  he  was  most  tenderly  attached,  died  within  a  year  from  their  marriage.  In 
"  The  Spirit-Bride,"  Mr.  Stewart  beautifully  touches  upon  the  sorrow  which  desolated 
his  life.  The  looking-forward,  however,  which  characterizes  this  poem,  characterizes 
many  others  that  he  has  written.  A  deep  religious  feeling  pervades  them.  In  a  lit 
erary  point  of  view  his  verses  are  graceful,  with  occasional  marked  felicities  of  expres 
sion  ;  with  here  and  there  an  absence  of  mind  in  regard  to  the  nicer  proprieties  of 
art — of  which  probably  no  one  is  more  conscious  than  the  poet  himself. 

Mr.  Stewart  ardently  believes  in  a  western  literature,  and  has  more  than  once  bro 
ken  a  shining  lance  in  honor  of  it.  His  chief  exploit  in  the  cause,  is  a  story,  written 
in  1854,  called  "  Autorial  Life  in  the  West,"  in  which  he  portrays  the  literary  disa 
bilities  supposed  to  exist  here. 


THE  SPIRIT-BRIDE. 

MANY  think  that  Heaven  is  far 
Beyond  the  light  of  the  morning  star — 
That  cycling  suns  its  guardians  are ! 

But  who  think  so,  could  never  have  known 
The  pangs  of  the  heart,  left  in  darkness 

alone, 
Robb'd  of  the  light  that  round  it  shone ! 

Heaven  is  nearer  than  they  suppose, 
For,  putting  aside  their  earthly  clothes, 
They  lay  down  in  its  sweet  repose. 

Heaven  is  nearer  than  they  suspect, 
For  did  they  but  a  moment  reflect, 
They  might  hear  voices  of  God's  elect, 


Singing  His  praise  in  Nature's  psalm, 
At  the  feet  of  the  Great  "I  Am," 
Around  the  cross  of  the  crucified  Lamb ! 

'Tis  no  lone  isle  in  a  shoreless  main, 
Whence    loved    ones    come   to  us  never 

again 
To  assuage  our  sorrow,  or  ease  our  pain ! 

No  !  'Tis  a  world  near  allied  to  this ; 
For  the  eye  that  closes    one  moment  in 

this, 
May  open  the  next,  in  heavenly  bliss ! 

Each  praying  soul  has  a  Pisgah-height, 
To  which  it  may  climb,  through  adversity's 

night, 
And  behold  the  land  of  heavenly  light. 


(612) 


1850-60.] 


GORDON    A.   STEWART. 


613 


And   there  are   times,  on  this   mundane 

sphere, 

When  the  weary  soul  can  distinctly  hear 
The  rustling  robes  of  an  angel  near ! 

Ah,  one  who  on  earth  did  pain  endure, 
One  who  has  made  her  calling  sure, 
One  who  has  kept  her  election  pure, 

Comes  to  me  now,  and  stands  by  my  side 
She,  who  was  once  my  earthly  bride, 
She,  who  is  now  my  spiritual  guide. 

Her  delicate  form  I  plainly  trace, 
I  see  a  smile  on  her  love-lit  face, 
And  I  fold  her  again  in  love's  embrace! 

Her  head  once  more  I  have  gently  pressed 
Close  to  my  throbbing,  aching  breast — 
There,  O  God,  could  she  ever  rest ! 

To  me  now  she  is  more  than  ever  divine ! 
Her  sweet  soft  eyes  looking  into  mine, 
Drunken  my  soul  with  delicious  wine ! 

God  once  gave  me  a  joy  like  this ! 
I  lave  again  in  His  bountiful  bliss, 
And  raise  her  lips  for  a  melting  kiss ! 

But  she  has  eluded  my  fond  embrace, 
And  stands  by  my  side  with  a  sorrowful 

face, 
Saying,  "  Come  to  God's  merciful  throne 

of  grace ; 

"  Christ  will  bind  up  thy  broken  heart, 
And  a  new  life  to  thy  soul  impart ; 
Come  to  Him,  husband,  just  as  thou  art !  " 

I  am  holding  again  her  proffered  hand, — 
I  hear  the  songs  of  the  angel  band, 
For  we  are  near  to  the  heavenly  land ! 

Again  we  are  standing,  side  by  side, 
I,  a  mortal  groom — she,  a  spirit-bride, 
Awaiting  the  flow  of  Eternity's  tide ! 


JUNE. 

A  BREEZY   landscape   from  my  window 

lies, — 
The  woods  and  fields  all  dress'd  in  richest 

green, 
Tremblingly    glisten    in    the    morning 

sheen, 

And  fleecy  clouds  afloat  the  azure  skies. 
Now  and  anon  there  steals  into  my  room 
The  pure  breath  of  the  morning,  full 

and  sweet 
With  fragrance  of  the  wheat  and  clover 

bloom ; 
Then  passing,  like  an  angel,  through  the 

street, 
It  whispers  to  the  poor  unhungered  soul 

Of  harvests,  rich,  and  bountiful,  and  rare, 
That  soon  shall  ripen,  and  by  manly  toil 
Gladden  the  hearts  of  thousands  every 
where. 

Such  are  the  scenes  that  tell  us  June  is  here, 
The  month  of  flowers,  the  promise  of  the 
year. 


AFTER-BLOOM. 

WE  treasure  the  flowers  of  old  summers, 
Their  fragrance  is  haunting  the  room ; 

We  gaze  at  the  vase  on  the  mantle, 
Around  it  float  airs  of  lost  bloom. 

Though  we  rise  out  of  grief's  dark  winter, 
Though  joy  kisses  sorrow  through  tears ; 

Yet  we  sigh  for  the  rose-lipped  pleasures 
We  pluck  with  the  flowers  of  lost  years. 

But  never  returns  the  last  summer, 
Though  spring  kisses  winter  away  ; — 

Our  hearts  are  renewed  with  the  fragrance 
Of  flowers  that  we  gather  to-day. 

The  flowers  of  to-day  are  the  purer, 
Baptized  with  love's  morning  dew; 

And  the  lingering  perfume  of  old  ones 
Is  lost  in  the  sweets  of  the  new. 


SARAH  E.  WALLACE. 


SARAH  E.  WALLACE,  daughter  of  J.  C.  Elston,  one  of  the  early  and  influential 
settlers  of  Indiana,  was  born  at  Crawfordsville,  in  that  State,  in  the  year  1830.  In 
1852  she  was  married  to  Lewis  Wallace  of  Indianapolis.  Her  poems  are  character 
ized  by  sweet  womanly  feeling  and  fancy,  and  poetic  grace  of  expression.  They  ap 
peared  originally  in  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  and,  their  author  avoiding  rather  than 
seeking  reputation,  were  submitted  to  the  editor  without  name  or  date. 


THE  PATTER  OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

UP  with  the  sun  at  morning 

Away  to  the  garden  he  hies, 
To  see  if  the  sleepy  blossoms 

Have  begun  to  open  their  eyes ; 
Running  a  race  with  the  wind, 

His  step  as  light  and  fleet, 
Under  my  window  I  hear 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 

Anon  to  the  brook  he  wanders 

In  swift  and  noiseless  flight, 
Splashing  the  sparkling  ripples 

Like  a  fairy  water-sprite. 
No  sand  under  fabled  river 

Has  gleams  like  his  golden  hair ; 
No  pearly  sea-shell  is  fairer 

Than  his  slender  ankles  bare ; 
Nor  the  rosiest  stem  of  coral, 

That  blushes  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Is  sweet  as  the  flush  that  follows 

Our  darling's  airy  tread. 

From  a  broad  window  my  neighbor 

Looks  down  on  our  little  cot, 
And  watches  the  "  poor  man's  blessing ; " 

I  cannot  envy  his  lot. 
He  has  pictures,  books,  and  music, 

Bright  fountains,  and  noble  trees, 
Flowers  that  blossom  in  vases, 

Birds  from  beyond  the  seas ; 

(614 


But  never  does  childish  laughter 
His  homeward  footstep  greet, 

His  stately  halls  ne'er  echo 
The  tread  of  innocent  feet. 

This  child  is  our  "  speaking  picture," 

A  birdling  that  chatters  and  sings, 
Sometimes  a  "  sleeping  cherub  " 

(Our  other  one  has  wings)  ; 
His  heart  is  a  charmed  casket, 

Full  of  all  that's  cunning  and  sweet, 
And  no  harpstrings  hold  such  music 

As  follows  his  twinkling  feet. 

When  the  glory  of  sunset  opens 

The  highway  by  angels  trod, 
And  seems  to  unbar  the  City 

Whose  Builder  and  Maker  is  God, 
Close  to  the  crystal  portal, 

I  see  by  the  gates  of  pearl, 
The  eyes  of  our  other  angel — 

A  twin-born  little  girl. 

And  I  ask  to  be  taught  and  directed 

To  guide  his  footsteps  aright, 
So  that  I  be  accounted  worthy 

To  walk  in  sandals  of  light ; 
And  hear  amid  songs  of  welcome, 

From  messengers  trusty  and  fleet, 
On  the  starry  floor  of  Heaven 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 


1850-60.] 


SARAH    E .    WALLACE. 


615 


THE  SINGING  TREE.* 

THE  night  is  filled  with  beauty — 
Moonbeams,  still  and  fleet, 
Have  silvered  each  trodden  path, 
And  paved  with  pearl  the  street, 
The  spreading  maple  at  my  door 
Is  a  weird  and  wondrous  tree, 
For  all  night  long  it  singeth 
Sweetest  songs  to  me. 

'Tis  many  years  since  first  I  stood 
In  the  changeful  light  and  shade 
Of  its  leaves  and  blossoms  dancing, 
While  the  merry  breezes  played — 
The  air  was  sheen  and  perfume, 
Enchantment  all  to  me, 
I  dwelt  in  a  sinless  Eden 
Beneath  a  magical  tree. 

Soon  the  sound  of  little  voices, 
And  the  touch  of  little  hands, 
Brought  us  yet  closer  together, 
Bound  us  in  living  bands. 
The  bright  years  chased  each  other 
Till  precious  children — three, 

Airily  swung, 

Like  blossoms  sprung, 
From  the  heart  of  the  graceful  tree. 

Our  life  had  reached  its  full, 
Its  warm  deep  summer-time, 
When  he  died — my  beloved — 
In  the  strength  of  manhood's  prime. 
That  bitter,  bitter  grief 
May  not  be  written  or  told ; 
It  bowed  my  head  to  the  dust 
And  silvered  its  "  paly  gold." 

My  children  were  left  awhile, 
They  grew  in  strength  and  pride, 
I  knelt  in  wild  idolatry, 
I  knew  no  world  beside. 


*  u  Here  he  found  the  talking  bird,  the  singing  tree,  and 
the  yellow  water." — Arabian  Nig/its. 


Their  pretty  words,  their  baby  ways 
Ah  !  how  can  I  e'er  forget ! 
The  light  in  their  dying  eyes — 
It  wrung  my  heart — 'tis  bleeding  yet. 

****** 

Glorious,  golden  Autumn 
Flashed  far  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Like  a  radiant  Princess  crowned 
E'er  she  kneels  to  take  the  vail. 
And  friendly  winds,  like  redbreasts, 
Sprinkled  the  dying  sod 
With  brown  and  crimson  leaves, 
And  flowers  of  golden-rod ; 
And  softly  sings  a  requiem 
Of  rarest  melody, 
To  a  child  who  stood  alone 
Under  the  singing  tree. 

My  only  boy — how  I  madly  wept, 
How  I  vainly  tried  to  pray ! 
But  the  silver  cord  was  loosed, 
My  pearls  were  dropping  away. 
Spring  came  and  hung  the  maple 
With  plumes  that  waved  in  pride ; 
June  bloomed,  and  faded — swanlike, 
Sweetest  the  hour  she  died — 
When  I  looked  in  my  baby's  face 
And  saw  that  soon  must  he — 
The  last  and  loveliest  one — 
Sleep  under  the  faithful  tree. 
Swiftly,  surely  his  life  went  out, 
The  last  strong  link  was  riven ; 
There  stood  no  love  for  living  thing 
Between  my  heart  and  Heaven. 

Such     nights — such     holy     nights     as 

these — 

"  I  cannot  make  them  dead  ; " 
They    break    the    bunds    of   dreamless 

sleep, 

They  leave  their  earthy  bed. 
I  hear  each  well-known  step 
As  they  come  about  my  knee, 
And  the  voices  loved  so  well 
Are  the  songs  of  the  singing  tree. 


ROSELLA   RICE. 


ROSELLA  RICE  is  a  native  of  Ashland  county,  Ohio.  Her  father,  Alexander  Rice, 
was  among  the  earliest  settlers  at  Perrysville,  and  Rosella  has  always  resided  at  the 
old  homestead,  where  she  was  born,  about  the  year  1830.  Miss  Rice  is  a  born  poet, 
and  has  nursed  her  strange,  wild  fancies,  amid  the  equally  wild  hills  and  glens  and 
rocky  caves  which  she  has  haunted  with  a  devotion  that  has  amounted  to  a  life  pas 
sion.  Meeting  with  but  few  associates  who  could  appreciate  the  depth  of  her  passion 
for  such  communings,  her  spirit  was  wont  to  retire  within  herself,  except  when  it  was 
called  forth  by  the  presence  of  the  sylvan  gods  among  whom  she  worshiped.  Her 
early  contributions  to  the  county  papers  are  marked  by  her  own  rude,  but  genuine 
original  characteristics.  Coming  but  little  in  contact  with  the  world  at  large,  she 
built  upon  ideal  models,  wherever  she  departed  from  her  own  original.  Miss  Rice 
has  read  much  and  well,  and  within  the  last  few  years  has  visited  the  wide  world  con 
siderably.  She  has  contributed  to  Arthur's  Home  Magazine,  Philadelphia,  and  to  sev 
eral  of  the  Cleveland,  Columbus,  and  other  papers  in  Ohio.  Her  prose  writings  al 
ways  attract  attention  and  secure  a  wide  circulation,  from  their  peculiar  original  vigor 
and  directness.  In  1859  she  published  a  considerable  volume,  entitled  "Mabel,  or 
Heart  Histories,  a  Novel,"  from  the  press  of  Follett,  Foster  &  Company,  of  Colum 
bus,  Ohio. 


CHARLIE  LEE. 

I  WILL  whisper,  Charlie  Lee, 
Olden  memories  to  thee  ; 
Tell  thee  of  the  alder  shade 
Where  we  two  together  played, 
How  the  bended  bough  we  rode, 
Till  our  ruddy  faces  glowed — 
Then  our  horses  tethered  fast 
Till  the  weary  lesson  past, 
Light  again,  we  bounded  free — 
Little  Rose,  and  Charlie  Lee. 

I  will  whisper,  Charlie  Lee, 
Other  stories  unto  thee; 
Tell  thee  of  the  grassy  meads, 
Where  white  lilies  hang  their  heads, 

(  616  ) 


Where  sweet-williams  purple  grew, 
And  low  violets  wet  with  dew ; 
Where  the  pinky  clover  blooms, 
Nodding,  scattered  soft  perfumes, 
And,  with  dimpled  hands  full  we 
Roved  delighted,  Charlie  Lee. 

I  will  whisper,  Charlie  Lee, 
Treasured  stories  unto  thee ; 
How  we  waded  in  the  rill, 
Panting,  clambered  up  the  hill, 
'Mong  the  lithe  and  waving  pines, 
Sobbing  low  to  summer  winds, 
From  the  leaves  of  winter-green 
Berries  of  a  crimson  sheen, 
Chatting  gaily,  gathered  we, 
In  aprons  tiny,  Charlie  Lee. 


18SO-6U.] 


ROSELLA    RICE. 


617 


I  will  whisper,  Charlie  Lee, 
Other  stories  unto  thee — 
Dost  remember  how  I  longed 
For  the  highest  blooms,  where  thronged 
Humming-birds  and  yellow  bees, 
On  the  rough  crab-apple  trees  ? 
And  the  limbs  so  gnarled,  there 
Caught  thy  curls  of  golden  hair ; 
But  thy  laugh  rang  out  in  glee — 
Noble-hearted  Charlie  Lee. 

I  have  whispered,  Charlie  Lee, 
Childish  stories  unto  thee — 
Manhood's  seal  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  thou  carest  little  now 
For  our  childhood's  sunny  time, 
Like  unto  a  rippling  rhyme, 
That  we  lisped  in  baby  years, 
Ere  we  knew  of  hopes  and  fears ; 
Sunniest  hours!  how  blest  were  we — 
Little  Rose,  and  Charlie  Lee. 


THE  NIGHT  WIND'S  REVEL. 

COMES  the  wild  wind  round  the  corner, 
Like  the  piteous  wail  of  mourner;  — 
'Tis  of  one,  a  mother  weeping, 
O'er  the  crib  where  lieth  sleeping 
The  babe  whose  slumber  is  unwaking, 
Though  the  mother's  heart  be  breaking. 
How  like  her  wail,  thou  mocking  wind ! 
Ah,  lonesome  night !     Ah,  mocking  wind ! 

Comes  the  wild  wind  round  the  corner, 

Like  the  frenzied  wail  of  mourner : — 

'Tis  of  one  whose  heart  is  broken, 

But  whose  woe  is  else  unspoken. 

Glad  hands  that  reached  for  treasures  rare, 

Poor  hands  that  found  but  empty  air — 

Tightly  clasp  together  now, 

O'er  a  throbbing,  burning  brow  ! 

How  like  her  wail,  thou  treach'rous  wind ! 

Ah,  lonesome  night,  and  mocking  wind ! 


Comes  the  wild  wind  round  the  corner, 
Like  the  piteous  sob  of  mourner ; 
From  wail  and  shriek  it  falleth  now 
Sinking  down  to  sobbing  low. 
'Tis  of  one  whose  pathway  led 
Among  green  graves  of  silent  dead, 
Who  loved  to  sit  where  willows  weep ! 
Ah,  faithless  winds,  thy  sobs  sound  so — 
Mournfully,  like  her  sobbing  low ! 

Come  night  winds  like  weeping  mourners, 
Wailing,  sobbing,  round  the  corners ! 
Come  with  soughs,  and  shrieks,  and  cries, 
Mad  minions  of  the  stormy  skies ! — 
Though  the  weeper's  wail  ye  bear, 
And  mock  the  frenzy  of  despair, 
Jubilant  bear  the  tearful  moan, 
The  quivering  sigh,  and  dying  groan ; 
Though  your  wails  unearthly  be, 
And  your  crying  paineth  me, 

Yet.  I  close  my  eyes  and  pray, 
With  my  wandering  thoughts  away, — 
Away  in  dark  and  desolate  homes, 
Where  pale  sorrow,  sad-eyed,  comes, 
Whence  the  piteous  cries  go  out, 
Caught  up  by  the  wild  wind's  rout, 
And  borne,  sad  notes,  on  wings  along, 
Commingling  in  exultant  song ! 


SPIRITS  OF  THE  WILDWOOD. 

WHERE  the  wanderer's  foot  hath  seldom 

trod — 
Where  scarce  a  thought,  unless  of  God, 

ould  fill  the  heart,  oh,  then  and  there 
The  wildwood  spirits  fill  the  air ! 

Within  the  glen,  upon  the  hill, 
The  waterfall,  the  tinkling  rill, 
Within  the  vale  embosomed  deep 
By  trees  and  vines,  and  rocky  steep, 
Alone  in  deep,  sweet  solitude, 
Dwell  the  wild  spirits  of  the  wood. 


GEORGE   TRUE. 


GEORGE  TRUE,  a  native  of  Mount  Vernon,  Knox  county,  Ohio,  was  born  about 
the  year  1830.  His  father  was  one  of  the  pioneer  preachers  of  central  Ohio,  and  is 
still  a  citizen  of  Mount  Vernon.  George  True  wrote  respectable  verses  when  a  boy, 
and  became  a  favorite  contributor  to  the  county  papers,  as  well  as  the  generally 
selected  poet  for  whatever  local  celebrations,  description,  or  story,  in  verse,  was  ap 
propriate.  In  January,  1856,  Mr.  True  became  the  publisher  of  The  Genius  of  the 
West,  at  Cincinnati,  and  when  he  discontinued  that  magazine,  in  June  of  the  same 
year,  connected  himself  with  the  editorial  department  of  the  Toledo  (Ohio)  Blade,  in 
which  capacity  he  is  now  employed. 


DAWN. 


FROM  the  upland  and  the  meadow 
Faded  darkness'  gloomy  vail ; 

Night  was  fleeing,  light  was  coming, 
And  the  stars  were  growing  pale. 

All  night  long  had  weary  watchers, 
By  a  couch  of  restless  pain, 

Heard  a  faint  voice  ask  the  question : 
.  "  When  will  morning  come  again  ?  " 

II. 

Watched  the  blushing  sky,  as  morning 

Climbed  the  rugged  eastern  hills, 
Waited,  tremblingly,  his  coming, 

Crowned  with  golden  daffodils. 
Softer  eyes  were  turned  with  longing 

Toward  the  hill-tops'  dusky  brown  ; 
Fairer  tresses  than  the  sunbeams 

Waited  an  immortal  crown. 

in. 
Oh  !  how  earnestly  out-gazing 

Watched  those  eyes,  as  high  and  higher 
Crept  the  roseate  tinge,  till  softly 
Burned  the  mountain-tops  with  fire ; 

(  « 


Till  the  sweep  of  light's  broad  billows, 

Like  a  molten  sea  of  gold, 
Burst  the  mountain-wall,  and  over 

All  the  plain  its  richness  rolled. 

IV. 

Very  often  had  that  faint  voice, 

Falling  fainter  every  day, 
Wished  for  morning's  ruddy  coming, 

Wished  the  shadows  all  away. 
Very  often  toward  the  mountains 

Had  those  spiritual  eyes 
Turned,  with  gaze  each  day  more  longing, 

Watched  the  morn-awakened  skies. 

v. 
Hers  that  look,  so  calm  and  saintly, 

Though  with  pallor  strangely  vailed ; 
Hers  that  love,  like  heavenly  fragrance, 

On  the  desert  earth  exhaled ; 
Hers  the  graces,  such  as  only 

Crown  the  lovely,  pure  and  good, 
Who,  before  they  enter  heaven, 

Have  put  on  their  angel-hood. 

VI. 

Higher  still  the  sun  ascending, 

Showed  his  broad  and  dazzling  crown ; 


1850-60.] 


GEORGE    TRUE. 


G19 


Higher  swelled  the  golden  river, 
Flowing  from  the  mountains  down  ; 

Bathed  that  light  the  dewy  flowers, 
Crowned  them  all  with  jewels  rare, 

Till  above  the  hills  the  billows 
Surged  and  filled  all  the  air. 

VII. 

She  a  mother,  who  so  faintly 

Through  the  long  night  wished  for  day, 
From  her  lips  that  loving  spirit, 

With  a  blessing,  passed  away. 
Clasped  her  infant  boy  once  fondly, 

Smiled  to  see  the  promised  dawn — 
Then  awoke  she  in  that  morning 

Which  forever  shineth  on. 

VIII. 

Through  the  flower-encircled  casement 

Streamed  the  full  tide  of  the  morn, 
And  within  that  cottage  chamber 

Crowned  two  souls  to  life  new-born. 
One  to  tread  earth's  rugged  pathway — 

His  a  weary  lot,  at  best ; 
But  the  mother's  dawn  of  glory 

Ushered  in  her  day  of  rest. 


HARVEST.  SONG. 

SWING — swing — swing ! 
Our  heavy  cradles  ring ; 
When  the  dew-drops  hang  on  the  bending 

corn, 

And  cool  is  the  breezy  breath  of  morn, 
And  our  hearts  a  lightsome  joyance  feel 
'Mid  the  rustling  grain  and  the  ring  of  the 

steel. 
Swing — swing — swing ! 

Our  Harvest  Song  we're  singing, 
Our  cradles  bright,  in  the  morning  light, 
Through  the  golden  fields  are  ringing. 

Swing — swing — swing  ! 
Our  sharpening  rifles  ring 


On  our  dew-wet  blades,  when  a  swath  we've 

laid, 

And  across  the  field  a  furrow  made, 
A  golden  furrow  of  ripened  grain 
Which  the  binders  gather  with  might  and 

main. 
Then  swing — swing — swing  ! 

Our  Harvest  Song  we're  singing ; 
With  a  gladsome  shout  we'll  face  about, 

Our  cradles  blithely  swinging. 

Swing — swing — swing ! 
The  beaded  pitcher  bring 
From  the  spring  in  the  hollow,  all  dripping 

and  cool, 
Where  the  grape-vine  hangs  o'er  the  clear 

deep  pool. 

No  burning  draughts  from  the  poisonous  still 
Want  we,  our  harvest  strength  to  kill. 
We'll  swing — swing — swing ! 

While  our  Harvest  Song  we're  singing, 
No  help  we'll  borrow,  the  price  of  sorrow 
And  degradation  bringing. 

Swing — swing — swing ! 
Till  the  bells  in  the  city  ring ; 
Or  over  the  whispering  fields  of  corn 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  the  dinner  horn — 
Then  we'll  find  how  sweet  hard  labor  can 
Make  the  bread  of  the  working  man ; 
And  swing — swing — swing  ! 

Our  Harvest  Song  still  singing, 
With  health  renewed  by  healthful  food 
Again  our  cradles  swinging. 

Swing — swing — swing  ! 
More  wearily  we  sing 
With  shorter  breath  our  lagging  tune, 
In  the  stifling  heat  of  the  afternoon ; 
But,  rallying  at  the  set  of  sun, 
We  shout,  "Hurra!  our  harvest's  done!" 
Our  Harvest  Song  we  now  have  sung : 
Our  cradles  in  their  places  hung : 
There,  with  a  final  parting  cheer, 
We'll  leave  them  till  another  year. 


MARY   R.   T.   M'ABOY. 


THE  letters  "  M.  R.  M."  are  well  known  to  the  readers  of  the  Louisville  Journal, 
the  Memphis  Enquirer,  The  Genius  of  the  West,  and  Chattels  Illustrated  Monthly, 
published  in  Philadelphia.  They  represent  Mary  R.  T.  McAboy,  of  Paris,  Bourbon 
county,  Kentucky,  who,  since  1850,  has  written  very  pleasant  poems  for  the  newspa 
pers  and  magazines  mentioned. 


MADELEINE. 

THE  moon  is  up — the  night  is  waning  fast, 
My  boat  is  anchored  by  the  pebbled  shore, 
And  I  have  lingered  here  to  look  my  last, 
Upon  the  home  that  may  be  ours  no  more ; 
To  keep  again  an  old  familiar  tryst, 
To  clasp  thy  gentle  hand  once  more  in 

mine, 

And  braid  thy  hair  with  flowers  by  night- 
dews  kiss'd, 
While  o'er  thy  upturned  brow  the  young 

stars  shine, 

Madeleine. 

Dost  thou  recall  to-night    the    beauteous 
time, 

When  in  these  fragrant  woods  I  met  thee 
first: 

While  faintly  fell  the  vesper's  holy  chime. 

Thy  maiden  charms  upon  my  vision  burst. 

The  sun  was  setting  in  a  golden  glow, 

His  parting  glance  beamed  bright  on  flow 
er  and  tree ; 

A  roseate  hue  had  tinged  the  mountain 
snow, 

But  these  were  naught,  for  thou  wert  all 
to  me, 

Madeleine. 


How  oft  to  me,  upon  the  battle's  eve, 
That  picture  of  the  past  comes  floating  by, 


And  then  my  inmost  spirit  doth  receive 
The  tender  glances  of  thy  soul-lit  eye. 
The  west  wind  dallies  with  thy  mantle's 

fold, 
Beneath  the  arch  where  myrtle  branches 

meet, 

And  softly  fans  thy  ringlet's  wavy  gold, 
That  almost  ripple  to  thy  tiny  feet, 

Madeleine. 

And  then  I  hear  the  full,  majestic  swell, 
Of  the  deep  organ  in  the  old  church  aisle, 
And  thy  dear  voice  that  softly  rose  and 

fell, 
More  sweet  to  me  than  seraph's  tone  the 

while ; 

I  start  to  hear  the  cannon's  booming  sound, 
The  clash  of  steel    upon   the   deep   mid 

sea, 
The  conflict's  roar  the  anthem  notes  have 

drowned, 
The  war-cloud  dimmed  that  vision  bless'd  of 

thee, 

Madeleine. 

Yet  pledge  once  more,  dear  love,  before 

we  part, 
While  o'er  thy  upturned  brow  the  young 

stars  shine, 

In  fearless  faith,  to  me,  thy  guileless  heart, 
Ere  sails  our  ship  across  the  foaming  brine. 


(  620  ) 


1850-60.] 


MARY    R.    T.    McABOY. 


621 


The  moon  is  up,  the  night  is  waning  fast, 
My  boat  is  anchored  by  the  pebbled  shore, 
And  I  have  lingered  here  to  look  my  last, 
Upon  the  home  that  may  be  ours  no  more, 
Madeleine. 


SERENADE. 

THE  Minstrel  sang  in  the  orient  land 

Of  the  zephyr's  balmy  sigh, 
And  the  flowers  that  gorgeously  expand 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky  ; 
But  I,  as  I  wander,  wake  a  song, 

To  the  glad  rejoicing  rain, 
That  patters,  and  pours,  and  sweeps  along, 

Till  the  old  woods  ring  again ; 
To  the  stormy  dash  and  the  diamond  flash 

Of  the  bright  resounding  rain  ! 

Hurra  !  hurra !  for  the  royal  rain, 

With  its  wild  and  gleesome  shout, 
As  over  valley  and  hill  and  plain 

It  idly  roams  about, 
Wooing  each  spring  and  gushing  rill 

With  myriad,  musical  words, 
Sweeter  than  all  the  songs  that  fill 

The  haunts  of  the  forest  birds — 
Ah !  sweeter  than  every  sound  of  earth 

Those  myriad,  musical  words. 

Sweet  was  the  minstrel's  antique  strain, 

Of  green  and  starlit  bowers ; 
But  sweeter  the  sound  of  the  gentle  rain, 

That  wakens  the  sleeping  flowers, 
That  freshens  each  mossy,  shaded  bank, 

Where  the  leaves  are  springing  up, 
And  fills  with  nectar  the  woodland  tank 

For  the  fairies'  acorn  cup, 
The  bright  rejoicing  rain  that  falls, 

Where  the  flowers  are  springing  up. 


Ah  !  maiden,  wake  from  thy  drowsy  dreams. 

Dost  hear  the  rippling  rain  ? 
List  to  its  myriad,  musical  themes, 

As  it  sweeps  across  the  plain ; 
It  brings  a  song  for  the  silent  streams, 

A  blush  for  the  folded  flowers, 
And  whispers  low  of  the  sunny  beams 

That  follow  the  genial  showers. 
Then  waken,  oh !  waken,  maiden  fair, 

Awake  with  the  dreaming  flowers. 


IT  IS  THE  WINTER  OF  THE  YEAR. 

IT  is  the  winter  of  the  year, 

On  buried  flowers  the  snow-drifts  lie, 
And  clouds  have  vailed  with  ashen  gray, 

The  blueness  of  the  summer  sky. 
No  brooks  in  babbling  ripples  run — 

No  birds  are  singing  in  the  hedge— 
No  violets  nodding  in  the  sun, 

Beside  the  lakelet's  frozen  edge ; 
Yet  unto  bruised  and  broken  boughs, 

Freshly  the  greenest  mosses  cling, 
And  near  the  winter's  stormy  verge, 

Floateth  the  fragrant  bloom  of  Spring. 

It  is  the  winter  of  my  life, 

On  buried  flowers  the  snow-drifts  lie, 
And  clouds  have  vailed  with  ashen  gray, 

The  blueness  of  my  summer  sky. 
No  light  steps  cross  my  threshold  stone, 

No  voice  of  love  my  ear  doth  greet, 
No  gentle  hands  enclasp  mine  own, 

With  cordial  welcome  fond  and  sweet; 
Yet  unto  bruised  and  broken  hearts, 

The  words  of  tenderest  promise  cling, 
And  floateth  near  Time's  stormy  verge, 

The  bloom  of  everlasting  Spring. 


FRANCES   A.    SHAW. 


FRANCES  A.  SHAW  is  a  native  of  Maine,  whose  father  migrated  to  Minnesota  in 
the  hope  of  retrieving  a  shattered  fortune,  but  failing  in  that  hope  took  sick  and  died, 
leaving  his  widow  and  six  children  in  circumstances  which  required  the  best  exertions 
of  the  elder  ones  to  make  home  comfortable  and  happy.  Miss  Shaw  had  been  liber 
ally  educated,  and  has  turned  that  education  to  good  account  by  teaching  school.  She 
wrote  verses  in  her  earliest  youth,  and  her  Muse  has  found  much  to  engage  it,  in  the 
stirring  legends  and  romantic  scenery  of  the  Upper  Mississippi.  Her  poem  "  Minne- 
haha "  was  originally  published  in  The  Genius  of  the  West  in  1855.  She  has  con 
tributed  frequently  to  Illinois  papers,  and  is  at  present  a  resident  of  Galena,  in  that 
State. 


MINNEHAHA.* 

'TwAS  a  beauteous  day  in  summer,  glad 
ness  thrilled  the  balmy  air, 

Lightly  danced  the  zephyrs  round  me,  mu 
sic  floated  every  where, 

I  could  hear  the  grand  old  river,  as  his 
waters  sought  the  sea, 

Rising,  falling  to  the  pulses  of  a  weird, 
strange  melody. 

At  my  feet  a  smiling  streamlet  danced  in 
careless  glee  along, 

And  with  that  solemn  anthem,  blent  its 
lightly  gushing  song. 

And  I  traced  its  silvery  windings  till  its 
sparkling  waters  fell, 

Bounding,  leaping,  gaily  dancing  o'er  the 
rocks,  adown  a  dell, 


*  Five  miles  from  St.  Anthony,  Minnesota,  in  the  vicin 
ity  of  Fort  Snelling,  is  a  beautiful  shady  glen.  Through 
this  flow.s  a  small  .stream,  which  at  a  short  distance  from 
its  confluence  with  the  Mississippi,  gliding  over  a  precip 
itous  ledge  of  rocks,  forms  the  "  Little  Falls,"  most  ap 
propriately  and  poetically  called  by  the  Indians,  "  Min- 
neluiha."  or  "  laughing  waters."  There  is  a  kind  of  wild 
grandeur  about  the  larger  falls  of  St.  Anthony,  but  Min- 
nehaha  is  the  very  perfection  of  beauty. 


Where  a  scene  of  wondrous  beauty  was 

unfolded  to  my  eyes, 
That  enthralled  my  raptured  spirit  in  a 

wild  and  glad  surprise. 

O'er  those  rocks,  dark-browed  and  hoary, 

breaking  into  feathery  spray, 
Bursting    into    merry    laughter,    ran    the 

brook  away — away, 
Till  its    rippling    waters    parted,  and   in 

light-robed  fairy  bands, 
Bounded  off  the  singing  wavelets,  linking 

their  white,  dimpled  hands. 
As  with  wavy  tresses  flowing  to  the  breeze 

they  tripped  along, 
They  seemed  like  happy  children,  warbling 

forth  their  joy  in  song. 
What  a  robe  of  silvery  whiteness  round 

those  dusky  hills  they  hung ! 
What  a  vail  of  airy  lightness  round  that 

cliff's  dark  brow  they  flung ! 
How  they  wooed  the  golden  sunbeams,  till 

they  formed  an  arch  so  bright, 
That  it  seemed  a  ladder  stretching  upward 


to  the  land  of  light! 


(622) 


1850-60.] 


FRANCES    A.    SHAW. 


623 


Had  angel  forms  descended  then  to  visi 

haunts  of  men, 
They  might  have  made  their  chosen  home 

that  sweet  sequestered  glen ; 
For  well  we  know  the  spirit  Beauty  has 

to  earth  come  down, 
And    placed    on    Minnehaha's     brow   her 

fairest,  brightest  crown. 

And  this  was  "Minnehaha,"  these  were 
then  the  "  laughing  waters  " 

That  echoed  once  the  laughter  of  the  for 
est's  dark-eyed  daughters. 

Here,  from  summer's  heat  retreating, 
would  the  Indian  hunter  stray, 

And  bare  his  fevered  forehead  to  their  cool 
light-falling  spray. 

Oft,  in  listening  to  their  music,  would  (!ie 
savage  chief  forego 

Many  a  dream  of  battle  gory,  and  of  hos 
tile  tribe  laid  low ; 

Here,  beneath  this  arch  of  waters,  many  a 
whispered  vow  of  love, 

Blending  with  their  ceaseless  murmur, 
sought  the  Father's  ear  above. 

Years  have  fled.     Warrior  and  chieftain, 

wily  hunter,  dusky  maid, 
From  their  own  dear  "  laughing  waters," 

to  a  far-off  land  have  strayed. 
And  fairer  brows  are  bared  to  catch  the 

baptism  of  their  spray, 
But  yet  no  tone  of  grief  is  blent  with  their 

sweet,  joyous  lay ; 
As    in    their   never-varying  course  those 

waters  rush  along, 
Their  mystic  notes  a  language  find,  they 

sing  me  this  wild  song : 

Through  the  ages  old  and  hoary, 
Since  creation's  natal  day, 


All  unknown  to  song  or  story, 

Have  we  journeyed  on  our  way. 
At  the  morning's  sun  upspringing, 

'Mid  the  deepening  shades  of  night, 
Ever  laughing,  ever  singing, 

From  this  airy  rock-crowned  height. 
Fall  we  to  our  streamlet's  waters, 

Glide  we  to  our  father's  breast, 
Fairest  of  the  beauteous  daughters 

That  within  his  arms  find  rest. 

'Mid  the  tempest's  rage  and  madness, 

Still  our  pleasant  voice  ye  hear; 
When  the  sun  smiles  out  in  gladness, 

Yet  it  thrills  all  nature's  ear. 
When  the  weary  earth  is  sleeping 

'Neath  the  pensive,  pale  moonlight, 
And  the  stars  are  vigils  keeping 

In  the  silent  halls  of  night, 
Carol  we  the  same  sweet  story, 

Chant  we  still  a  song  to  Him, 
In  the  radiance  of  whose  glory 

All  our  brightness  is  but  dim. 

*  Minnehaha !  "  "  laughing  water ! "  when 

my  heart  is  sad  and  lone, 
Let  me  seek  again  thy  pleasant  haunts,  and 

listen  to  thy  tone. 
When    earth's   coldness   chills  my   spirit, 

when  I  faint  beneath  life's  cross, 
When  its  idols  all  are  shattered,  and  its 

good  seems  very  dross, 
Let  me  learn  from  thee  a  lesson,  though 

G 

deep  waters  round  me  roll, 
Though  earth's  storms  shall  gather  o'er  me, 

and  its  sorrows  shroud  my  soul, 
Still  serene  amid  the  tempest  may  I  lift 

my  heart  above, 
And  go  on  the  path  of  duty,  trusting  in 

the  Father's  love. 


PAMELA   S.   VINING. 


PAMELA  S.  VINING,  a  teacher  in  the  Seminary  for  Young  Women  at  Albion,  Mich 
igan,  is  known  in  the  literary  world  as  XENETTE.  She  was  born  in  Orleans  county, 
New  York,  and  her  childhood  was  spent  in  that  State.  Her  father  was  an  emigrant 
to  northern  Michigan  when  it  was  comparatively  a  new  country.  Miss  Vining  was 
introduced  to  the  literary  public  in  Wellman's  Literary  Miscellany,  published  at  De 
troit.  She  has  since  written  for  New  York  magazines,  and  for  the  Ladies'  Repository 
at  Cincinnati. 


THE  PLOWMAN. 

TEARING  up  the  stubborn  soil — 

Trudging,  drudging,  toiling,  moiling, 
Hands,  and  feet,  and  garments  soiling — 

Who  would  grudge  the  plowman's  toil  ? 
Yet  there's  luster  in  his  eye 
Borrowed  from  yon  glowing  sky, 
And  there's  meaning  in  his  glances 
That  bespeaks  no  dreamer's  fancies, 
For  his  mind  has  precious  lore 
Gleaned  from  Nature's  sacred  store. 

Toiling  up  yon  weary  hill, 

He  has  worked  since  early  morning, 
Ease,  and  rest,  and  pleasure  scorning, 

And  he's  at  his  labor  still, 

•Though  the  slanting  western  beam 
Quiv'ring  on  the  glassy  stream, 
And  yon  old  elm's  lengthened  shadow 
Flung  athwart  the  verdant  meadow, 
Tell  that  shadowy  twilight  gray 
Cannot  now  be  far  away. 

See !  he  stops  and  wipes  his  brow, 
Marks  the  rapid  sun's  descending, 
Marks  his  shadow  far  extending, 
Deems  it  time  to  quit  the  plow. 
Weary  man  and  weary  steed 
Welcome  food  and  respite  need  ; 


'Tis  the  hour  when  bird  and  bee 
Seek  repose,  and  why  not  he  ? 
Nature  loves  the  twilight  bless'd, 
Let  the  toil-worn  plowman  rest ! 

Ye  who  nursed  upon  the  breast 
Of  ease  and  pleasure  enervating, 
Ever  new  delights  creating 

Which  not  long  retain  their  zest 
Ere  upon  your  taste  they  pall, 
What  avail  your  pleasures  all? 
In  his  hard  but  pleasant  labor, 
He,  your  useful  healthful  neighbor, 
Finds  enjoyment,  real,  true, 
Vainly  sought  by  such  as  you. 

Nature's  open  volume  lies, 

Richly  tinted,  brightly  beaming, 
With  its  varied  lessons  teeming, 

All  outspread  before  his  eyes. 

Dewy  glades  and  opening  flowers, 
Emerald  meadows,  vernal  bowers, 
Sun  and  shade,  and  bird  and  bee, 
Fount  and  forest,  hill  and  lea — 
All  things  beautiful  and  fair 
His  benignant  teachers  are. 


Tearing  up  the  stubborn  soil — 

Trudging,  drudging,  toiling,  moiling, 
Hands,  and  feet,  and  garments  soiling, 
(624) 


1850-60.] 


PAMELA    S.    VINING. 


625 


Who  would  grudge  the  plowman's  toil? 
Yet  'tis  health  and  wealth  to  him, 
Strength  of  nerve,  and  strength  of 

limb; 

Light  and  fervor  in  his  glances, 
Life  and  beauty  in  his  fancies, 
Learned  and  happy,  brave  and  free, 
Who  so  proud  and  bless'd  as  he  ? 


MEMORY  BELLS. 

UP  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing, 

Softly  your  melody  swells, 
Sweet  as  a  seraphim's  singing, 
Tender-toned  memory  bells ! 
The  laughter  of  childhood, 
The  song  of  the  wildwood, 
The  tinkle  of  streams  through  the  echoing 
dell,— 

The  song  of  a  mother, 
The  shout  of  a  brother, 
Up  from  life's  morning  melodiously  swell. 

Up  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing, 

Richly  your  melody  swells, 
Sweet  reminiscences  bringing, 
Joyous-toned  memory  bells ! 
Youth's  beautiful  bowers, 
Her  dew-spangled  flowers, 
The  pictures  which  hope  of  futurity  drew, — 
Love's  rapturous  vision 
Of  regions  Elysian 
In  glowing  perspective  unfolding  to  view. 

Up  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing, 

Sadly  your  melody  swells, 
Tears  with  its  mournful  tones  bringing, 
Sorrowful  memory  bells ! 
The  first  heart-link  broken, 
The  first  farewell  spoken, 
The  first  flow'ret  crushed  in  life's  desolate 
track, — 


The  agonized  yearning 
O'er  joys  unreturning, 
All,  all  with  your  low,  wailing  music  come 
back. 

Up  from  the  spirit-depths  ringing, 
Dirge-like  your  melody  swells ; 
But    Hope    wipes    the    tears   that  are 

springing, 

Mournful-toned  memory  bells ! 
Above  your  deep  knelling 
Her  soft  voice  is  swelling, 
Sweeter  than  angel-tones,  silvery  clear ; 
Singing  in  heaven  above 
All  is  unchanging  love, 
Mourner,  look  upward,  thy  home  is  not 
here ! 


MINNIEBEL. 

WHERE  the  willow  weepeth 

By  a  fountain  lone — 
Where  the  ivy  creepeth 

O'er  a  mossy  stone — 
With  pale  flowers  above  her, 

In  a  quiet  dell, 
Far  from  those  that  love  her, 

Slumbers  Minniebel. 

There  thy  bed  I  made  thee 

By  that  fountain  side, 
And  in  anguish  laid  thee 

Down  to  rest,  my  bride ! 
Tenderest  and  fairest, 

Who  thy  worth  may  tell, 
Flower  of  beauty  rarest, 

Saintly  Minniebel ! 

Weary  years  have  borrowed 

From  my  eye  its  light, 
Time  my  cheek  has  furrowed, 

And  these  locks  are  white ; 
But  my  heart  will  ever 

'Mid  it-  iiK-m'ries  dwell, 
Fondly  thine  forever, 

Angel  Minniebel ! 


40 


ELIJAH    EVAN    EDWARDS. 


ELIJAH  EVAN  EDWARDS  was  born  at  Delaware,  Ohio,  on  the  twenty-sixth  day 
of  January,  1831.  His  father  was  a  minister  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church. 
Mr.  Edwards  enjoyed  excellent  advantages  for  early  education,  and  graduated  with 
honor  at  Asbury  University,  Greencastle,  Indiana,  in  1853.  He  was  immediately 
«'M M ployed  as  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages,  in  an  Academy  at  Brookville,  Indiana, 
and  was,  in  1856,  President  of  Whitewater  College,  Centerville,  Indiana.  In  1857 
and  1858,  Mr.  Edwards  was  Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  in  Hamline  University, 
Ked  Wing,  Minnesota.  He  has  written  well  both  in  prose  and  verse,  for  the  Na 
tional  Magazine,  New  York,  for  the  Ladies"  Repository,  and  other  Cincinnati  maga 
zines,  and  for  various  prominent  newspapers. 


LET  ME  REST. 

"  LET  me  rest !  " 
It  was  the  voice  of  one 
Whose  life-long  journey  was  but  just  be 
gun. 

With  genial  radiance  shone  his  morning  sun, 
The  lark  sprang  up  rejoicing  from  her  nest, 

To  warble  praises  in  her  maker's  ear ; 
The  fields  were  clad  in  flower-enameled 

vest, 
And  air  of  balm,  and  sunshine  clear 

Failed  not  to  cheer 

That  yet  unweary  pilgrim  ;  but  his  breast 
Was  harrowed  with  a  strange,  foreboding 

fear  ; 

Deeming  the  life  to  come,  at  best, 
But   weariness,  he   murmured,  "  Let  me 
rest ! " 

Inglorious  rest ! 

Why  should  intrepid  youth 
A  respite  seek  from  weariness  so  soon  ? 
Why  should  he  shun  the  fervid  heat  of 
noon? 


His  course  is  onward  to  the  Land  of  Truth, 
Through  many  a  lonely,  many  a  danger 
ous  way, 

And  he,  to  reach  that  blessed  land,  for 
sooth, 

Must  bear  the  heat  and  burden  of  the 
day, 

Its  noontide  ray, 

Its  gathering  storms:  not  here  the  land  of 
rest, 

But  o'er  the  thorny  plain,  the  mountain's 
crest, 

To  the  unresting  ones  God's  peace  is  given, 

And  bleeding  feet  tread  the  long  path  to 
heaven. 

'  "  Let  me  rest," 

But  not  at  morning's  hour, 
Nor  yet  when  clouds  above  my  pathway 

lower ; 

Let  me  bear  up  against  affliction's  power, 
Till  life's  red   sun   has    sought  its  quiet 

West, 

Till  o'er  me  spreads  the  solemn,  silent 
night, 


(626) 


1850-60.] 


ELIJAH    E.    EDWARDS. 


627 


When,  having  passed  the  portals  of  the 

blessed, 
I  may  repose  upon  the  Infinite, 

And  learn  aright 
Why  He,  the  wise,  the  ever-loving,  traced 
The  path  to  heaven  through  a  desert  waste 
Courage,  ye  fainting  ones ;  at  His  behest 
Ye  pass  through  labor  unto  endless  rest. 


"AND  THEN." 

'TWAS  when 
A  youth  stood  on  his  threshold,  looking 

forth, 

With  dreamy  eyes,  upon  the  smiling  earth, 

And  picturing  joy  amid  the  coming  years, 

A  strange  and  solemn   voice  fell  on  his 

ears — 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"What  then? 
I  shall  go  forth  to  mix  with   pleasure's 

throng, 

Join  in  the  dance,  the  revel,  and  the  song, 
Till  youth  with  all  its  joyous  scenes  hath 

fled—" 

The  voice  once  more  with  chilling  whisper 
said, 

"And  then?" 

"  What  then  ? 

I'll  labor  then  to  gather  wealth  and  gold, 
To  meet  my  wants  when  I  am  weak  and 

old; 
To   smooth   my   path   in   life's   declining 

years." 

Again  that  solemn  voice  fell  on  his  ears — 
"And  then?" 

"What  then? 
Why,  when  age  bends  my  frame,  and  dims 

my  eye, 
My  fate  will  be  the  fate  of  all — to  die ; 


Of  years  and  honors  full,  I  ask  no  more  ! " 
The  voice  replied  more  solemn  than  before, 
"And  then?" 

"What  then?" 
He   answered  not,  but  with  his  youthful 

heart 

Resolved  to  choose  the  nobler,  better  part, 
That  nevermore  amidst  his  visions  bright 
Those  whispered   words   should   mar  his 
soul's  delight, 

"  And  then." 


THE  THREE  FRIENDS. 

THREE  friends  that  never  fail 

Each  mortal  hath, 
Himself,  his  God,  and  last. 

The  angel  Death. 

Higher  than  power  or  fame, 

Dearer  than  pelf, 
Nearer  than  brother's  love — 

The  love  of  Self. 

Truer  than  sun  or  star, 

Higher  than  heaven, 
Deeper  than  nether  space, 

God's  love  is  given. 

More  gentle  than  the  spring, 

Or  summer's  breath, 
And  as  a  mother  kind, 

The  angel  Death. 

There  is  a  threefold  fate 

Binding  the  soul ; 
God  fills,  Self  drinks,  Death  breaks 

Its  golden  bowl. 

The  cup  is  filled  with  bliss — 

Drain  it,  O  soul ! 
Nor  hat(^  tin-  friend  who  breaks 

The  empty  bowl. 


M.    LOUISA   CHITWOOD. 


QUIET  lives  furnish  slight  materials  for  biography,  except  to  those  who,  knowing 
intimately  a  poetic  mind,  can  appreciate  the  delicate  impulses  under  which  it  acts,  or 
sympathize  with  the  emotions  by  which  it  is  elevated  or  depressed.  We  knew  M. 
Louisa  Chitwood  only  through  correspondence  and  through  her  contributions  to  the 
newspapers  and  magazines  of  the  West,  but  we  had  learned  to  love  her  as  one  who 
gave  promise  of  richest  ornament  to  our  literature,  believing  that,  strong  in  life  and 
genius,  she  would  grow  to  eminent  maturity ;  and  when  the  news  came  that  suddenly, 
with  visions  unrealized — with  poems  unwritten — dear  friends  whom  she  deeply  loved 
unseen,  she  had  been  stricken  by  death  in  the  morning  of  womanhood,  we  felt  that 
the  Destroyer  had  broken  a  circle  through  which  ran  some  of  our  most  dearly  cher 
ished  friendships. 

Miss  Chitwood  was  born  October  twenty -ninth,  1832,  and  died  December  nineteenth, 
1855,  at  Mt.  Carmel,  Indiana.  Early  in  life  she  exhibited  unusual  fondness  for  poetry, 
and  at  school  excited  the  envy  of  her  fellow-pupils  by  the  excellence  of  her  compositions. 
The  first  poem  from  her  pen  which  appeared  in  print  was  published  at  Connersville, 
Indiana.  It  was  highly  commended  as  a  poem  from  the  pen  of  a  young  girl,  not  far 
in  her  teens,  who  gave  evidence  of  being  a  true  child  of  genius — whose  mind,  strength 
ened  with  age  and  regulated  by  discipline,  would  yet  add  luster  to  American  literature. 

Miss  Chitwood  did  not  alone  give  promise  of  excellence  as  a  poet.  Her  prose 
sketches  possess  a  peculiar  sweetness  of  tone  and  grace  of  style,  particularly  those 
written  for  children.  We  think  she  was  especially  gifted  as  a  writer  for  the  juvenile 
mind.  Her  sympathies  were  active,  and  she  had  a  gift  in  their  expression,  whether 
through  poems,  prose  sketches,  or  in  letters  to  her  friends.  She  was  most  warmly 
cherished  by  many  who  had  never  seen  her,  as  a  dear  correspondent,  and  all  who  have 
written  notices  of  her  early  death,  wrote  with  affectionate  regret — not  merely  regret 
that  a  gifted  woman  had  died,  but  that  a  dear  friend  was  lost. 

George  D.  Prentice,  in  announcing  her  decease,  said : 

Miss  Chitwood  was  young,  but  in  her  brief  career  of  life,  she  knew  something  of  sorrow,  and 
lier  heart  was  both  softened  and  strengthened  by  the  stern  discipline.  She  was  kind  and  gentle 
and  true  and  good — warm-hearted  and  high-souled — diffident  and  shrinking,  but  conscious  of  bright 
and  beautiful  thoughts  and  of  strong  powers,  given  her  b*y  God  for  useful  purposes.  Her  whole 
nature  was  deeply  and  intensely  poetical,  and  thus  to  her  the  whole  world  was  full  of  poetry.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it  seems  a  mysterious  dispensation  of  Providence  that  the  little  amount  of  breath  necessary  to 
the  life  of  a  glorious  young  girl,  is  withdrawn,  whilst  enough  of  wind  to  make  a  blustering  day  is 
vouchsafed  to  the  lungs  and  nostrils  of  the  tens  of  thousands  of  the  worthless  and  vile. 

Miss  Chitwood  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Louisville  Journal,  the  Ladies'  Re 
pository,  The  Genius  of  the  West,  Arthur's  Home  Gazette,  the  Odd  Fellows'  Ark,  and 
other  papers  and  magazines. 

Mrs.  Jane  Maria  Mead,  who  writes  us  "  that  her  letters  were  overflowing  with  af- 

(628) 


1850-60.] 


M.    LOUISA    CHIT  WOOD. 


629 


fection,  as  flowers  burdened  with  perfume,"  describes  her  "  as  a  girl  of  medium  stat 
ure,  of  a  kindly  spirit ;  of  a  genial,  confiding  nature.  She  was  called  beautiful.  Her 
complexion  was  very  fair,  her  cheeks  rosy,  her  lips  red  as  coral,  her  eyes  of  a  rich 
blue,  soft  and  sweet  in  their  expression ;  her  hands  were  small  and  white,  her  hair  of 
a  flaxen  color,  inclining  to  a  golden  hue,  and  was  of  great  length." 

Miss  Chitwood  was  preparing  a  volume  of  poems  for  the  press  when  her  last  illness 
overtook  her.  Under  the  supervision  of  George  D.  Prentice,  who  wrote  an  introduc 
tion  for  it,  that  volume  has  since  been  published*  for  the  benefit  of  her  mother,  who 
resides  at  Mt.  Carmel,  Indiana. 


THE  TWO  POEMS. 

"  I  WILL  sing,"  thus  said  a  poet ; 

"  I  will  weave  a  lay  for  fame ; " 
And  his  dark  eye  flashed  and  sparkled, 

And  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  flame ; 
While  with  quick,  impatient  fingers, 

And  with  pale  lips  half  apart, 
Did  he  wake  the  lyre  to  wailings, 

Groanings  from  a  tortured  heart. 

Then  he  sang  a  gorgeous  poem, 

Like  a  kingly  diadem ; 
Every  line  was  like  a  jewel, 

Every  word  was  like  a  gem ; 
And  he  cast  it,  smiling  proudly, 

On  the  world's  deceitful  sea, 
Saying,  as  it  floated  onward, 

"  Fame,  oh  !  bring  fame  back  to  me." 

On  it  went,  that  gorgeous  poem, 

As  the  blue  waves  swept  apart ; 
Captivating  but  the  fancy — 

Never  speaking  to  the  heart ; 
For  to  those  who  paused  to  listen, 

The  low  dirge  within  its  breast 
Gave  it  nothing  but  wild  yearnings, 

Sadness,  bitterness,  unrest. 
But  it  twined  the  poet's  forehead 

With  a  laurel  wreath  of  flame ; 


He  did  reap  what  he  had  planted, 
A  rich  harvesting  of  fame. 

"  I  will  sing,"  thus  said  a  poet ; 

"  I  will  sing  a  lay  for  Love." 
Meekly  were  her  dark  eyes  lifted 

To  the  quiet  stars  above ; 
Then  there  came  a  dear  good  angel, 

And  her  white  wings  o'er  her  press'd, 
Tuning  to  a  low,  sweet  music 

Every  pulse  within  her  breast. 

Then  with  dreamy  eyes  and  misty, 

And  with  red  lip  half  apart, 
Wove  she  into  words  and  stanzas 

The  emotions  of  her  heart. 
"  Go,"  she  said,  "  thou  little  poem, 

Go  abroad  like  Noah's  dove — 
Breathe  to  every  heart  a  blessing, 

Bring  me  love  !  oh,  bring  me  love  ! " 

Lightly  went  the  little  poem, 

Gladly  on  its  mission  sweet, 
Like  a  wave  of  wondrous  beauty, 

Singing  at  the  sailor's  feet ; 
Like  a  green  tree  in  the  desert, 

Like  a  cooling  water-brook, 
Like  a  lily  by  a  river, 

Like  a  violet  in  a  nook. 


*  Poems.     By  M.  Louisa  Chitwood- 
&  Co.,  1857.     12ino.  pp.  288. 


elected  and  prefaced  by  G.  D.  Prentice.   Cincinnati:  Moore,  Wilstach,  Keys 


630 


M.    LOUISA    CHIT  WOOD. 


[1850-60. 


Oh  !  like  all  things  bright  and  joyous, 

Was  that  simple,  earnest  lay, 
And  of  love  a  plenteous  harvest, 

Shed  about  the  poet's  way. 
Knelt  she  in  the  golden  twilight, 

With  the  dews  upon  her  hair, 
And  with  tearful  eyes  to  heaven, 

Breathed  her  thankfulness  in  prayer. 

"  If  a  pilgrim  hath  been  shadowed 

By  the  tree  that  I  have  nursed ; 
If  a  cup  of  clear  cold  water 

I  have  raised  to  lips  athirst ; 
If  I've  planted  one  sweet  flower 

By  an  else  too  barren  way ; 
If  I've  whispered  in  the  midnight 

One  sweet  word  to  tell  of  day ; 

"  If  in  one  poor  bleeding  bosom 

I  a  woe-swept  chord  have  stilled ; 
If  a  dark  and  restless  spirit 

I  with  hope  of  heaven  have  filled ; 
If  I've  made  for  life's  hard  battle 

One  faint  heart  grow  brave  and  strong ;- 
Then,  my  God,  I  thank  thee,  bless  thee, 

For  the  precious  gift  of  song." 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

THE  woods  are  full  of  tiny  graves, 

The  sweet  graves  of  the  flowers, 
That  sprang  in  every  sheltered  nook, 

Arnid  the  Spring-time  hours. 
The  buttercup  lies  on  the  slope 

Where  first  the  sunlight  fell ; 
The  violet  sleeps  beside  the  rill, 

The  daisy  in  the  dell. 

Upon  no  stone  is  carved  the  name 

Of  April's  children  fair  ; 
They  perished  when  the  sky  was  bright, 

And  gentle  was  the  air. 
To  the  soft  kisses  of  the  breeze 

They  held,  half-trembling,  up, 


Full  many  a  small  transparent  urn 
And  honey-laden  cup. 

But  when  the  roses  budded  out, 

In  summer's  balmy  hours, 
No  little  mound  was  made  to  tell 

Where  slept  the  gentle  flowers. 
Those  early  flowers — they  seem  to  me 

Like  little  children  sweet, 
Who  smile  a  moment  on  our  path, 

Then  perish  at  our  feet. 

We  know  they  cannot  linger,  e'en 

In  love's  most  fond  embrace  ; 
We  see  the  mark  of  Paradise 

Meek  shining  from  their  face  ; 
And  soon  their  tiny  graves  are  made, 

But  years  go  circling  by, 
And  not  a  stone  can  tell  us  where 

The  little  children  lie. 

But  some  are  sleeping  on  the  hill, 

Beneath  the  emerald  grass, 
Where  gay  birds  soaring  to  the  sky, 

Pause  singing  as  they  pass ; 
And  many  in  the  church-yard  sleep, 

And  many  in  the  dell, 
And  many  near  the  cottage  homes 

Of  those  who  loved  them  well. 

Oh,  many  an  Indian  baby  lies 

In  forest  old  and  grand  ; 
Its  rustic  playthings  fallen  from 

The  mouldering  little  hand  ; 
And  flowers  have  sprung,  and  flowers  have 
died, 

Upon  its  silent  breast ; — 
Their  nameless  graves  are  side  by  side : 

None  mark  them  as  they  rest. 

Yet,  in  each  grassy,  humble  mound, 

Where  sleeping  childhood  lies, 
A  bud  is  bursting  into  bloom — 

A  blossom  for  the  skies. 
But,  ah  !  the  flowers,  the  April  flowers  ! 

Their  graves  are  small  and  low  ; 
We  know  they  lie  in  wood-land  bowers, 

And  more  we  cannot  know. 


1850-60.] 


M  .    LOUISA    0  H  I  T  W  O  0  D . 


631 


THE    SEAMSTRESS. 

A  DIRGE,  and  an  open  grave, 

A  coffin  upon  the  bier ; 
Then    the    clay   fell   over   the   care-worn 

breast, 

And  a  form  went  down  to  its  place  of  rest, 
Like  a  weary  bird  to  her  evening  nest, 

In  the  tall  trees  waving  near. 

She  had  struggled  long  with  life, 
Long  with  her  weight  of  woe, 
Till  her  eyes  were  dim  with  their  flood  of 

tears, 
Till  her  breast  was  sick  with  its  hopes  and 

fears ; 

She  had  struggled  on  through  weary  years, 
Till  the  sands  of  life  were  low. 

She  had  toiled  from  the  early  morn, 
When  over  the  sleeping  earth 

The  clear  bright  rays  of  the  sunlight  fell 

Over  the  city,  forest  and  dell ; 

And  music  woke  like  a  fairy  bell, 
With  a  tremulous  sound  of  mirth : 

Till  the  golden  sun  was  set, 

And  the  changing  day  gone  by, 
And  the  stars  shone  forth  like  diamonds 

bright 

Set  in  the  jeweled  crown  of  Night ; 
And  the  moon  pour'd  forth  her  flood  of 

light 
From  the  far-off  azure  sky : 

Till  her  rounded  cheek  grew  pale, 
With  her  weary,  toilsome  lot ; 

No   friends   were   near,   with    their   fond 
caress, 

To  speak  kind  words,  to  soothe  and  bless ; 

But  she  struggled  on  in  her  loneliness, 
Unnoticed  and  forgot. 

Like  a  fettered  bird  long  caged, 
Which  is  at  length  released, 


Her  soul  flew  forth  from  its  cage  of  clay 
Into  the  fields  of  light  and  day, 
Where  her  spirit  knows  no  more  decay, 
But  all  shall  whisper  peace. 

They  have  placed  her  in  the  tomb  ; 

None  shed  a  sorrowing  tear ; 
The  busy  world  will  go  plodding  on ; 
The  night  shall   come,  and   the  morning 

dawn 
For  long,  long  years,  yet  the  spirit  gone, 

No  more  shall  suffer  here. 


BOW  TO  NONE  BUT  GOD. 

TURN  thy  face  to  the  sunshine ! 

Let  nothing  cast  thee  down, 
While  truth  upon  thy  forehead 

Rests  blazing  like  a  crown. 
Look  up !  nor  fear,  nor  falter, 

Though  a  monarch  press  the  sod — 
Soar  upward  like  an  eagle, 

And  bow  to  none  but  God ! 

Cringe  not  to  Wealth's  proud  children, 

Though  robed  in  garments  fine — 
Give  not  an  inch  !  the  pathway 

Is  theirs  not  more  than  thine ; 
Let  thy  stern  eye  confront  them, 

Bearer  of  hoe  or  hod, 
Onward  and  upward,  ever 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  God ! 

Look  up  !  be  brave  and  steadfast, 

Press  onward  to  thy  goal ; 
Art  thou  not  the  possessor 

Of  an  immortal  soul? 
Soul  bought  by  throes  of  anguish, 

In  the  garden  where  He  trod — 
Soul,  costly  as  a  monarch's : 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  God ! 

Shall  thy  check  flush  with  crimson 
Before  the  world-called  great  ? 


632 


M.    LOUISA    CHIT  WOOD. 


[1850-60. 


Wilt  thou  fawn  meekly,  humbly 
To  that  thy  heart  must  hate  ? 

Wilt  thou  bow  to  the  oppressor 
With  courtly  beck  and  nod  ? 

No !  stand  like  some  strong  mountain, 
And  bow  to  none  but  God ! 

Onward  !  let  slander's  arrows 

Pass  by  in  silent  scorn ; 
Let  malice  die  in  darkness, 

It  was  in  darkness  born ; 
Let  Falsehood  perish  writhing 

'Neath  Trulh's  unsparing  rod, 
She  is  the  best  avenger : 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  God ! 

Onward !  and  plant  thy  harvest, 

Whate'er  the  world  may  say  ; 
No  serpent's  hiss  beguile  thee 

A  moment  from  thy  way. 
If  the  way  be  very  humble 

O'er  which  thy  feet  have  trod, 
Go  on,  with  soul  unbending, 

And  bow  to  none  but  God ! 

No,  never !  while  thy  bosom 

Has  a  heart-throb  within, 
Let  thy  free  tongue  be  silent 

When  the  rich  and  mighty  sin. 
Look  up  !  nor  fear  nor  falter, 

Though  a  monarch  press  the  sod; 
He  is  but  man,  weak,  erring : 

Bow  thou  to  none  but  God ! 


SERENADE. 

THE  breeze  is  singing  softly 
To  the  young  bird  on  the  tree ; 

And  if  the  breeze  is  singing, 
Shall  not  I  sing  to  thee, 

Jennie,  darling? 
Shall  not  I  sing  to  thee  ? 

The  humble  flower  is  lookino1 

O 

Toward  the  evening  star, 


As  I  look  to  thee,  my  dearest, 
And  worship  from  afar, 

Jennie,  darling— 
And  worship  from  afar. 

Perhaps  thy  dark  brown  lashes 

Lie  softly  on  thy  cheek ; 
Then  let  thy  spirit  listen, 

And  hear  me  as  I  speak, 

Jennie,  darling— 

And  hear  me  as  I  speak. 

Oh !  let  rne,  let  me  love  thee, 

And  worship  from  afar ; 
For  thou  art  far  above  me 

As  yonder  beauteous  star, 

Jennie,  darling— 

As  yonder  beauteous  star. 

And  let  me  pour  my  spirit 
In  one  deep  song  to  thee ; 

Give  but  one  glance,  one  token 
My  talisman  to  be, 

Jennie,  darling— 
My  talisman  to  be. 

She  hears !  she  smiles  !  my  spirit 

Soars  like  a  bird  afar ! 
I  half  forget  the  distance 

Between  me  and  the  star, 

Jennie,  darling— 

Between  me  and  the  star. 

Good-night ! — or  is  it  morning  ? 

The  landscape  looks  so  bright, 
Or  is  it  those  dear  glances 

Emitting  glorious  light, 

Jennie,  darling? 

My  soul  is  bathed  in  light. 


THAT  LITTLE  HAND. 

His  little  hand,  so  frail  and  fair ! 

I  held  it  when  he  died, 
As,  with  an  agonizing  prayer, 

I  knelt  me  by  his  side. 


1850-KO.] 


M.    LOUISA    CHIT  WOOD. 


(533 


And  when  the  storm-clouds  o'er  me  rise 
Nor  light  comes  with  the  day, 

That  little  hand  is  o'er  mine  eyes, 
To  wipe  their  mists  away. 

Oh,  death  is  not  forgetfulness  ! 

It  is  not  utter  loss : 
Our  dear  ones  do  not  love  us  less 

When  they  the  death-gulf  cross. 

Oh,  thou  sweet  cherub — gentle  dove, 
From  storms  forever  flown, 

Let  thy  light  spirit-hand  of  love 
Forever  clasp  mine  own. 


THE  ROBIN'S  SONG. 

I  HEAR  a  robin  singing 

Out  in  the  Autumn  rain; 
My  soul  its  way  is  winging 

To  childhood's  time  again ; 
I  hear  the  south  winds  blowing, 
The  rush  of  the  harvest  mowing, 
And  the  voice  of  the  river  flowing, 

Where  lilies  lived  and  died ; 
I  rest  beneath  the  shadow 
Of  the  aspen  in  the  meadow, 

With  no  hope  crucified. 

And  now  his  song  is  over, 

I  hear  the  falling  rain, 
But  I  seem  to  srnell  the  clover 

With  honeyed  lips  again ; 
And  locks  the  world  hath  braided, 
And  eyes  the  tomb  hath  shaded, 
Come  back  undimmed,  unfaded, 

To  my  glad  heart  once  more ; 
And  all  the  sky  is  lighter, 
And  all  the  world  is  brighter, 

Until  my  dream  is  o'er. 

Oh,  frail  ties,  fair  and  golden, 
That  bind  us  to  the  past — 

Oh,  dreams  when  hours  the  olden 
Seem  all  come  back  at  last ; 


Slight  are  the  spells  that  take  us 
To  sweetest  thoughts,  and  wake  us 
From  heartless  things  that  make  us 

Of  sordid  life  the  slaves; 
And  through  the  world's  rough  bustle 
There  come  the  rush  and  rustle 

Of  angel-wings,  like  waves. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

"  THE  way  is  rough,  the  rocks  are  bare, 
How  can  my  bleeding  footsteps  cross  ?  " — 

"  Courage !  faint  heart,  do  not  despair, 
The  rocks  are  dotted  o'er  with  moss." 

The  way  is  dark,  and  lone  and  far, 
The  mists  of  gloom  around  me  rise." — 

"  Look  through  thy  tears,  behold  a  star 
Soft  shining  on  the  tranquil  skies." 

"  The  way  is  desolate,  I  know 

Not  where  to  turn — afraid,  alone." — 

"  Have  faith,  a  hand  as  pure  as  snow, 
Is  waiting  to  receive  thine  own." 

'  The  way  is  sad,  the  tones  that  thrilled 
My  heart,  come  to  my  ears  no  more." — 

1  Go  on  in  hope ;  they  are  but  stilled, 
That  thou  mayst  seek  them  gone  before." 

t  The  way  is  cheerless :  ah,  my  path 
Bears  more  of  woe  than  others  feel." — 

Not  so,  the  smiles  another  hath 
A  secret  canker  oft  conceal." 

'  The  way  is  fearful !  ah,  the  stream 
Is  dark,  by  fears  my  heart  is  riven." — 

'  Courage  one  moment,  yonder  gleam 
The  jasper  gates  of  rest  and  heaven." 


WILLIAM    WALLACE    HARNEY. 


WILLIAM  WALLACE  HARNEY  was  born  on  the  twentieth  of  June,  in  the  year 
1832,  at  Bloomington,  Indiana,  where  his  father  resided  as  Professor  of  Mathematics 
in  the  Indiana  University.  His  parents  were  John  H.  Harney  and  Martha  Wallace 
Harney,  and  both  are  still  living  in  Jefferson  county,  Kentucky.  His  father  is  widely 
known  as  one  of  the  most  profound  scholars  in  the  West,  as  the  author  of  several 
standard  works  on  mathematics,  and  as  the  editor  of  the  Louisville  Daily  Democrat, 
wielding  a  wide  and  powerful  influence  in  politics.  Mr.  Harney  removed  to  Ken 
tucky  when  William  was  about  five  years  of  age,  and  his  life  has  been  spent  in  an 
atmosphere  of  learning  and  refinement.  After  the  preliminary  training,  William 
Wallace  Harney  entered  Louisville  College,  where  his  education  was  mostly  obtained. 
He  did  not  graduate,  following  the  advice  of  his  father  to  be  always  ready  for  an  ex 
amination  to  attain  a  diploma.  His  education  was  perfected  under  the  tuition  of 
Noble  Butler,  and  N.  P.  Peabody.  He  taught  school  in  Louisville  for  some  years, 
and  was  elected  Principal  of  the  High  School,  which  he  conducted  with  signal  ability 
for  two  years.  He  was  called,  upon  the  establishment  of  the  State  Normal  School, 
to  a  professorship,  which  he  filled,  with  eminent  credit  to  himself,  until  the  downfall 
of  the  school.  He  then  began  the  practice  of  his  profession,  law,  in  Louisville,  until 
the  opening  of  the  gubernatorial  canvass  of  1859,  when  he  became  connected  with 
the  editorial  department  of  the  Louisville  Daily  Democrat,  in  which  position  he  has 
remained,  except  at  brief  intervals,  ever  since.  During  several  years,  Mr.  Harney 
was  a  frequent  contributor  of  poetry  to  the  Louisville  Journal,  George  D.  Prentice 
awarding  his  poems  high  merit.  Pie  contributed  also  to  the  Democrat,  and  several 
other  papers.  These  poetic  efforts  have  not  been  numerous,  but  varied  and  entirely 
successful,  as  the  abundant  encomiums  awarded  them,  together  with  their  general 
popularity,  will  bear  witness.  Mr.  Harney  possesses  fine  scholarship,  a  correct  and 
cultivated  taste,  with  extraordinary  versatility  of  talent,  a  logical  mind,  and  great 
force  of  character.  He  has  made  a  lasting  impression  upon  the  public  mind  in  Ken 
tucky  as  an  able  political  writer,  and  as  a  genial  and  brilliant  wit.  The  absorbing 
character  of  his  duties  as  a  journalist  has  not  left  him  that  leisure  for  the  cultivation 
of  his  reputation  as  a  poet,  that  his  friends  could  wish,  and  the  pure  spring  of  Helicon 
has  been  neglected  for  the  dirty  pool  of  politics. 


(634) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM 


H  A  R  X  K  V . 


THE  STAB. 

ON  the  road,  the  lonely  road, 

Under  the  cold  white  moon, 
Under  the  ragged  trees  he  strode; 
He  whistled  and  shifted  his  weary  load — 

Whistled  a  foolish  tune. 

There  was  a  step  timed  with  his  own, 
A  figure  that  stooped  and  bowed — 
A  cold,  white    blade    that    gleamed    and 

shone, 
Like    a    splinter    of    daylight    downward 

thrown — 
And  the  moon  went  behind  a  cloud. 

But  the  moon  came  out  so  broad  and  good, 
The  barn  fowl  woke  and  crowed, 

Then  roughed  his  feathers  in  drowsy  mood; 

And  the  brown  owl  called  to  his  mate  in 

the  wood, 
That  a  dead  man  lay  on  the  road. 


THE  BURIED  HOPE. 

FOLD  down  its  little  baby  hands — 

This  was  a  hope  you  had  of  old ; 
Fillet  the  brow  with  rosy  bands, 

And  kiss  its  locks  of  shining  gold. 
Somewhere  within  the  reach  of  years, 

Another  hope  may  come,  like  this ; 
But  this  poor  babe  is  gone,  in  tears, 

With  thin  white  lips,  cold  to  thy  kiss. 

In  Summer,  a  little  heap  of  flowers, 

In  Winter,  a  little  drift  of  snow, 
And  this  is  all,  through  all  the  hours, 

Of  the  promised,  perished  long  ago. 
So  every  heart  has  one  dear  grave, 

Close  hidden  under  its  joy  or  care, 
Till  o'er  it  the  gusts  of  memory  wave, 

And  leave  the  little  head-stone  bare. 


THE  SUICIDE. 

THE  night  was  cold,  the  wind  was  chill, 
The  very  air  seemed  frozen  still, 
And  snowy  caps  lay  on  the  hill, 

In  pure  and  spotless  white ; 
The  icy  stars  lay  on  the  sky  ; 
The  frozen  moon  went  sailing  by, 

With  baleful,  livid  light. 

The  leafless  tree,  with  whitened  limb 
Stood,  like  a  specter  lean  and  grim, 
Upon  the  darkened  river's  brim, 

A  moveless  sentinel ! 
And  waters  turbulent  and  vast, 
Went  swiftly  boiling,  eddying  past, 

Adown  the  inky  swell. 

The  twigs  with  tracery  of  white, 
And  tapestry  of  curtained  night, 
With  fringe  of  strange,  phosphoric  light, 

Bowed  idly  to  the  moon  ; 
Anon,  across  the  silent  wood, 
The  owl  would  break  the  solitude 

With  wild  and  awful  tune ! 

No  hurrying  wheel  or  beating  tread 

Disturbed  the  sleeper  in  his  bed, 

But  earth  and  all  on  earth  seemed  dead, 

And  frozen  in  their  graves  ; 
The  moon  seemed  that  All-Seeing  eye, 
That  watched  the  waters  whirling  by 

In  black  and  silent  waves. 

Near  where  the  wrinkled  waters  fell, 
A  woman — oh  !  such  tales  to  tell — 
Lay,  like  a  frozen  Chris-label, 

Upon  the  river's  brim. 
Ah  !  was  it  so  ?  or  had  I  dreamed  ? 
Yet  so  1  saw,  or  so  it  seemed, 

By  that  cold  light  and  dim. 

And  fearfully  I  drew  a-nigh, 
With  opened  lip,  and  staring  eye, 
And  trembling  limbs — I  knew  not  why — 
Unto  the  darkened  spot, 


636 


WILLIAM    W.    HARNEY. 


[1850-60. 


Half- willing  to  advance,  or  flee 
The  thing  that  lay  so  silently, 
And  moved  or  muttered  not. 

Adown  upon  the  river's  bank, 
With  raven  hair,  the  tresses  dank, 
A  corse  the  yawning  waters  drank, 

To  cast  upon  the  shore  ; 
The  placid  features,  cold  and  still, 
The  pallid  lip  and  bosom  chill 
Lay  washing  at  the  water's  will, 

And  speechless  evermore. 

An  ivory  arm  of  purest  white 

Was  swinging  with  the  water's  might, 

And  swaying  slowly  left  and  right, 

As  if  the  pulse  was  there ; 
The  eyes  were  closed  upon  the  cheek, 
And  one  white  arm  was  folded  meek 

Upon  the  bosom  fair. 

And  raven  shreds  were  tangled  in 
Among  the  fingers  long  and  thin, 
As  rent  by  grief,  or  chance,  or  sin, 

In  moments  of  distress  ; 
The  garments,  as  in  hours  of  trust, 
Were  rent  from  off  the  icy  bust, 

That  gleamed  in  loveliness. 

I,  kneeling  by  that  lovely  face, 
And  gazing,  vainly  sought  to  trace 
Her  name,  her  station,  or  her  place, 

But  all  in  vain  at  last ; — 
But  hark!    what  sounds   are    those    I 

meet  ? 
'Tis  hurrying,  clambering,  stealing  feet 

That  fearfully  go  past. 

A  wave,  much  larger  than  the  rest, 
Came  rolling  o'er  that  lovely  breast, 
And  seizing  it  from  out  my  quest, 

It  bore  it  down  the  tide  ; 
But  was  not  that  a  horrid  dream, 
That  thrilling,  shrilly,  piercing  scream 

That  started  from  my  side  ? 


I  turned,  but  naught  of  earth  was  there, 
Nor  specter  from  the  church-yard  lair, 
Nor  creature  dark,  nor  foul,  nor  fair, 

Nor  living  thing,  nor  dead ; 
But  all  was  silent,  still,  arid  deep, 
As  are  forms  that  lie  in  sleep, 

Within  their  narrow  bed. 


THE  OLD  MILL. 

LIVE  and  die,  live  and  die, 

And  all  the  weary,  weary  years  go  by, 

And  the  quaint  Old  Mill  stands  still ; 
The  sun-mixed  shade,  like  a  spotted  snake, 
Lies  half-hidden  in  the  bosky  brake, 

And  half  across  the  rill. 

The  Summer  comes,  and  the  Winter  comes, 
And  the  flower  blooms,  and  the  striped  bee 
hums, 

And  the  Old  Mill  stands  in  the  sun  ; 
The  lichen  hangs  from  the  walls  aloof, 
And  the  rusty  nails  from  the  ragged  roof 

Drop  daily,  one  by  one. 

The  long  grass  grows  in  the  shady  pool, 
Where  the  cattle  used  to  come  to  cool, 

And  the  rotting  wheel  stands  still ; 
The  gray  owl  winks  in  the  granary  loft, 
And  the  sly  rat  slinks,  with  a  pit-pat  soft, 

From  the  hopper  of  the  quaint  Old  Mill. 

The  mill-wheel  clicked,  and  the  mill-wheel 

clacked, 
And  the  groaning  grooves  once  creaked 

and  cracked, 

And  the  children  came  and  played ; 
The  lazy  team,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Munched  their  fodder  at  the  Old  Mill  door, 
Or  drowsed  in  its  grateful  shade. 

But  the  good-wife  died,  and  the  miller  died, 
And  the  children  all  went  far  and  wide 
From  the  play-ground  by  the  dam ; 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    W.    HARNEY. 


G37 


Their  marble-ring  is  grass  o'ergrown 
As  the  mossy  foot  of  the  old  grave-stone, 
Where  the  old  folks  sleep  so  calm. 

But  the  miller's  son,  in  the  city  thick, 
Dreams  that  he  hears  the  Old  Mill  click, 

And  sees  the  wheel  go  round ; 
And    the  miller's   daughter,   through    her 

half-shut  eyes, 
Sees  the  miller  in  his  dusty  guise, 

And  the  place  where  the  corn  was  ground 


JIMMY'S  WOOING. 

THE  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 
The  wind  came  blowing  out  of  the  West : 
It  stirred   the  green   leaves  out  of  their 

rest, 
And  rocked  the  blue-bird  up  in  his  nest, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
The  swallows  skimmed  along  the  ground, 
And  rustling  leaves  made  a  pleasant  sound, 
Like  children  babbling  all  around — 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
Milly  came  with  her  bucket  by, 
With  wee  light  foot,  so  trim  and  sly, 
And  sunburnt  cheek  and  laughing  eye — 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

A  rustic  Ruth,  in  linsey  gown — 
And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay  ; 


A  rustic  Ruth,  in  linsey  gown, 

He    watched    her    soft    cheeks'   changing 

brown, 

And  the  long  dark  lash  that  trembled  down, 
Whenever  he  looked  that  way. 

Oh  !  Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
Oh  !  Milly's  heart  was  good  as  gold  ; 
But  Jimmy  thought  her  shy  and  cold, 
And  more  he  thought  than  e'er  he  told, 

As  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay. 

The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain, 

And  Jimmy  mowed  the  hay ; 
The  rain  came  pattering  down  amain ; 
And,  under  the  thatch  of  the  laden  wain, 
Jimmy  and  Milly,  a  cunning  twain, 

Sat  sheltered  by  the  hay. 

The  merry  rain-drops  hurried  in 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay ; 
The  merry  rain-drops  hurried  in, 
And  laughed  and  prattled  in  a  din, 
Over  that  which  they  saw  within, 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast, 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay ; 
For  Milly  nestled  to  Jimmy's  breast, 
Like  a  wild  bird  fluttering  to  its  nest ; 
And  then  I'll  swear  she  looked  her  best 

Under  the  thatch  of  hay. 

And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out, 

Over  the  ruined  hay — 
And  when  the  sun  came  laughing  out, 
Vlilly  had  ceased  to  pet  and  pout, 
And  twittering  birds  began  to  shout, 

As  if  for  a  wedding-day. 


LEWIS   JAMES   BATES. 


L.  JAMES  BATES,  who  was  born  at  Caatskill,  New  York,  September  twenty-second, 
1832,  but  who  has  passed  all  his  active  life  in  the  Mississippi  Valley,  is  one  of  the 
most  promising  young  poets  of  the  West,  who  can  set  type  as  well  as  indite  rhymes. 
Mr.  Bates's  poems  have  been  published  chiefly  in  the  Grand  River  Eagle,  Grand 
Rapids,  Michigan,  but  he  contributed  to  Putnam's  Monthly,  and  writes  for  the  Knick 
erbocker,  New  York.  He  is  the  author  of  several  parodies,  which  exhibit  a  keen 
sense  of  what  is  humorous.  Mr.  Bates  has  been  connected  with  the  editorial  depart 
ment  of  the  Grand  River  Eagle,  and.  of  the  State  Journal  at  Madison,  Wisconsin.  He 
now  resides  at  Grand  Rapids. 


THE  BRIDAL. 

FAIRER  than  the  spotless  white, 

At  the  nightly  hour  of  noon, 
Of  the  blended  northern  light, 

And  the  gentle  harvest-moon — 
Sweeter  than  some  angel-dream, 

Such  as  infant-smiles  express — 
Maiden  of  the  poet's  theme, 

Thou  wert  all  that  love  could  bless. 

In  the  morning  of  her  hair, 

Rippling  gold  on  banks  of  snow, 
Rose  and  fell,  as  waves  of  air 

In  the  dawning  float  and  flow. 
In  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes, 

Wlieresoe'er  her  glances  roam, 
Danced  the  dainty  summer-flies, 

Deeming  June  at  last  had  come. 

Than  the  beauty  of  her  soul 
Seraph-joys  were  grosser  even, 

Blending  in  delicious  whole 

Half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

But  one  shadow  dared  abide, 
In  the  glory  of  her  home — 


Formed  so  for  an  angel-bride, 

Feared  we  lest  the  groom  should  come. 

One  alone,  with  lover's  eye, 

Watching  at  the  early  dawn, 
Saw  the  angel-presence  nigh — 

Heard  his  footstep  o'er  the  lawn. 
Ah,  what  torture  racked  his  brain, 

As  the  footfall  plainer  grew, 
For  all  human  love  was  vain 

Where  an  angel  deigned  to  woo. 

Robed  in  pure  and  spotless  white, 

Smiled  she  as  the  day  drew  on, 
Waiting  for  the  set  of  night, 

When  her  lord  should  claim  his  own. 
One  by  one  the  hours  depart — 

One  by  one  the  footfalls  grow 
Nearer  to  her  drooping  heart — 

Nearer  to  her  breast  of  snow. 

When  at  la>st  the  eve  had  come, 

And  the  man  of  God  was  there, 
Came  the  groom  to  bear  her  home, 

With  a  blessing  and  a  prayer. 
As  the  parting  light  of  day 

Mingles  with  the  shades  of  even, 
Melted  thus  our  love  away, 

Half  to  earth  and  half  to  heaven. 


(  638  ) 


1850-60.] 


LEWIS    JAMES    BATES. 


639 


THE  MEADOW  BROOK. 

FROM  the  west  window,  look ! 

Yon  waving  line  of  green 
Marks  where  the  meadow  brook 
Windeth  its  way  unseen  : — 
Windeth  its  way  unseen 

Under  the  willows : 
All  the  sweet  flowers  between 
Drink  of  its  billows. 

Silent  and  still  it  flows, 

So  little  space  it  hath ; 
But  the  sweet  meadow  rose 
Brightens  along  its  path : 
Brightens  along  its  path 

Under  the  willows, 
To  the  dark  lake  whose  wrath 
Stays  its  bright  billows. 

Rill  of  the  humble  soul, 

Though  no  proud  multitude 
Mark  where  thy  waters  roll, 
By  their  green  line  of  good — 
By  their  green  line  of  good — 

Roses  and  willows 
Bloom  o'er  thy  life's  small  flood 
Far  down  its  billows. 

Rill  of  the  loving  heart, 

By  thy  bright  fringe  of  green 
Telling  us  where  thou  art 
Winding  thy  way  unseen — 
Winding  thy  way  unseen 

Under  life's  willows, 
All  the  sweet  flowers  between 
Drink  of  thy  billows. 

Silent  and  still  thy  flow 

(Love  needs  but  little  room)  ; 


Yet,  where  thy  waters  go, 
Ah  !  how  the  roses  bloom ! 
Ah  !  how  the  roses  bloom ! 

Roses  and  willows ! 
Till  the  dark  lake  of  doom 
Stills  thy  sweet  billows. 


THE  HAPPY  YEAR. 

ONE  morn — I  do  remember  well — 

It  rained — 'twas  on  a  New- Year's  day — 

Methought  the  tears  of  angels  fell 
On  all  the  seasons  passed  away. 

What  glimmer  of  millennial  light 
Has  lit  the  roadway  trod  in  gloom  ? 

The  world  reels  blindly  through  the  night, 
The  "  Happy  Year"  may  never  come. 

Our  days  have  fallen  on  evil  times ; 

Our  highest  are  our  basest  men ; 
The  blood  of  mediaeval  crimes 

Drips  from  our  garments  now,  as  then. 

3ut  of  that  deep,  how  little  rise : 
Out  of  that  darkness  what  faint  spark 

Has  shown,  to  cheer  the  longing  eyes 
Weary  of  watching  through  the  dark  ? 

What  star  has  touched  the  zenith  yet ; 

Has  passed  the  dim,  meridian  line, 
The  seal  on  morning's  brow  to  set, 

And  quicken  error's  slow  decline? 

Weary  of  questioning  the  night, 
I  looked  into  the  storm,  and  lo ! 

The  blackness  of  the  earth  was  white! 
The  falling  rain  had  changed  to  snow ! 


MARY   R.    WHITTLESEY. 


MARY  ROBBINS  WHITTLESEY  was  born  at  Elyria,  Lorain  county,  Ohio,  in  1831 
and  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Frederick  Whittlesey.  She  now  resides  at  Cleveland, 
with  her  mother.  Her  poetry  has  appeared  chiefly  in  the  Ohio  Farmer,  to  which 
journal  she  has  contributed  several  poems  of  great  merit.  Her  verse  betrays  her 
careful  intellectual  culture,  and  is  full  of  fine  poetic  sensibility  (another  word  for 
genius),  which  will  hereafter  develop  itself  in  forms  of  greater  originality.  The 
poems  here  printed  do  not  indicate  the  range  of  the  poet's  thought,  but  are  in  her  best 
manner. 


HEMLOCK  HOLLOW. 

UNDER  these  hemlocks  no  blossoms  grow, 
And  the  black  banks  slope  to  the  stream 

below, 
That  is   blacker  still,  and   sluggish,  and 

slow; 

For  even  in  summer  the  sun  shines  not 
Thro'  the  drooping  boughs  of  this  dreary 

spot ; 

And  the  mill-wheel  mouldered  years  ago, 
And  the  mill-stream's  current  is  running 

low. 

Here,  in  October,  the  icicles  gleam, 
Hanging  their  fringes  from  yonder  beam, 
Over  the  sullen  and  silent  stream ; 
And    some   who  in   summer-dawns    have 

crossed 
Yonder  bridge,  have  seen  it  white  with 

frost ; 

And  the  mill-wheel  mouldered  years  ago, 
And  the  mill-stream's  current  is  running 

low. 


A  weird  and  somber  silence  broods, 


Morning    and 


noon,   in    these    hemlock 


woods, 


Where  never  a  singing-bird  intrudes ; 
And  the  only  sound,  when  the  night  falls 

cool, 
Is  the  frogs'  dull  croak  from  yon  stagnant 

pool; 

For  the  mill-wheel  mouldered  years  ago, 
And  the  mill-stream's  current  is  running 

low. 


THE  WOODMAN'S  AX. 

BENEATH  the  forest's  roof  of  green, 
A  few  pale,  scentless  blossoms  lean, 
With  straggling  tufts  of  moss  between. 

The  woodman's  ax  strikes  sure,  tho'  slow ; 
"  Alas  !  for  glory  lying  low  ; — 
Alas  !  their  like  will  never  grow." 

So  mourn  we,  muttering :     "  Woe  betide 

The  cruel,  cruel  hand  that  plied 

The  ax  which  felled  the  forest's  pride!" 

The  years  glide  on  in  sun  and  shade — 
Forgotten  lies  the  forest  glade, 


Where  often,  once,  our  footsteps  strayed; 

(040) 


1850-60.] 


MARY    R.     WHITTLESEY. 


641 


Till,  in  some  careless  hour,  we  come 
Upon  a  patch  of  sunny  bloom, 
Deep  in  the  forest's  heart  of  gloom, 

And  pause,  in  sudden,  quick  delight, 
To  wonder  how  these  blossoms  bright 
So  long  have  hidden  from  our  sight. 

The  woodman's  ax  let  sunlight  in, 
Where  pale  and  scentless  flowers  did  lean 
tufts  of  moss  between  ; 


With  straggling 


And  lo !  this  garden  full  of  bloom, 
Where  humming-birds  and  wild  bees  hum 
Deep  in  the  forest's  heart  of  gloom. 

There  is  no  loss  without  its  gain, 
And  blessings  lurk  in  all  our  pain, 
Or  we  have  lived  our  life  in  vain. 

That  seems  a  cruel  hand  to  us, 
Which  lays  our  joys  low  in  the  dust — 
We  bow  beneath  it — for  we  must, 

But,  in  good  time  we  come  to  know 

That  hand  let  sunshine  in  below, 

Where  lowly  gifts,  like  flowers,  might  grow. 

Content,  and  sweet  humility, 
And  patient  trust,  and  charity, 
The  blossoms  of  adversity. 

Oh  !  mourners  !  weary  of  life's  pain, 
Take  heart !  thro'  grief  we  joy  attain — 
There  is  no  loss  without  its  gain. 


JULIETTE. 

JUST  fourteen,  as  slim  and  straight 
As  the  poplar  by  the  gate ; 
Eyes  as  black,  and  bright,  and  fearless 
As  some  wild  thing's,  pretty,  peerless 
Juliette ! 


Short,  black  hair,  too  straight  to  curl, 
Though  it  has  a  little  twirl ; 
Pouting  lips,  and  nose  retrousse, 
She  is  no  meek,  simple  Lucy — 
Juliette. 

When   she  sits,  she  seems  to  me 
Like  a  wild  bird,  or  a  bee, 
Pausing  in  her  flight  a  minute, 
Only  freshly  to  begin  it — 
Juliette. 

When  she  walks,  no  Indian  queen 
Wears  a  prouder,  statelier  mien ; 
Stepping  o'er  the  grass  so  lightly, 
With  a  tread  both  proud  and  sprightly, 
Juliette. 

In  the  glances  of  her  eye, 
Proud,  defiant,  though  so  shy, 
Speaks  a  spirit,  keen,  sarcastic, 
Matching  with  that  step  elastic — 
Juliette 

Juliette,  take  care ! — take  care ! — 
Men,  of  girls  like  you,  beware ; 
Tho' you're  young,  and  bright,  and  pretty, 
They'll  not  love  you,  if  you're  witty, 
Juliette. 

If  you  walk  with  such  an  air ; 
Red  lips  pouting,  "  I  don't  care  ;" 
Bright  eyes  saying,  "  I'll  not  fear  you, 
I'll  not  worship,  nor  revere  you, 
Stupid  men!" 

All  unconscious,  though  you  be, 
Of  that  dash  of  mockery, 
Every  look  and  gesture  show  it, 
And  some  time  I  know  you'll  rue  it, 
Juliette. 

Only  fourteen,  Juliette  ! — 
Time  to  mend  those  sad  ways  yet ; 
Train  those  eyes  to  meek  demureness : 
Gentle  glances  are  most  sure,  Miss 
Juliette. 


41 


MARY    R.    WHITTLESEY. 


[1850-60. 


Teach  those  lips  no  more  to  curl, 
Or  they'll  leave  you,  saucy  girl, 
Your  bright  eyes,  and  red  lips  juicy, 
For  some  humble,  blue-eyed  Lucy — 
Juliette. 

Yet  I  love  you,  as  you  are, 
Bright  and  sparkling,  like  a  star, 
With  those  shy,  proud  ways,  concealing 
Worlds  of  deep  and  tender  feeling. 
Juliette. 


NOT  YET. 

I  SEE  the  mists  slow-rising  from  the  river 

meadows, 
The  ghostly  mists  that  soon  will  wrap 

me  round ; 
I  hear  the  moths  flit  through  the  twilight 

shadows 

Of  yonder  room — a  ghostly,   haunting 
sound. 

And  this  is  all — no  echo  of  the  voices 
That  talked  with  mine  in  twilights  long 

gone  by; 
No  shadowy  gleams  from  well-remembered 

faces 

Turned  upward  to  the  starry  evening 
sky. 

Come,  mists,  slow-rising  from  yon  sleeping 

river, 
Close  wrap  me  in  your  cold  and  pallid 

arms ! 
They  are  not  colder  than  the  bosoms  stilled 

forever, 

Not  paler  than  those  still  and  shrouded 
forms. 


And  yet,  not  thus,  I  know,  would  they  em 
brace  me, 

If  in   the   spirit  they   should  come  to 
night, 
After  these  long,  long  years,  once  more  to 

face  me, 

With  brows  all  radiant  with  celestial 
light. 

Come,  friend,  whose  pure  and  high,  yet 

loving  spirit, 
Once  called  these  hill-sides  home,  and  me 

thy  friend, 
Come  near  me  as  of  old — I  should  not 

fear  it — 
I  know  thy  tenderness  could  never  end. 

And  he,  so  early  called  from  earth  to  meet 

thee, 

He  with  the  folded  arms,  and  lofty  mien, 
Whose  soul  was  hidden  from  us  ;  come  and 

greet  me, 

My  childhood's  friends,  so  long  unheard, 
unseen ! 

I  feel  the  mists  close  round  me  creeping, 

creeping ; 
I  hear  the  moths  flit  in  yon  darkened 

room ; 
But    this   is    all,  though   spirits   may  be 

keeping 

Their  solemn  trysting  'mid  the  gathering 
gloom. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  may  we  three  meet,  tho' 

meadow, 
And   sloping  hill-side,  where   the  wild 

flowers  blow, 
And  orchard  dark  all  day  with  slumbering 

shadow, 

Still  with  their  haunting  presence  over 
flow. 


BENJAMIN   S.   PARKER. 


BENJAMIN  S.  PARKER  was  born  on  the  tenth  of  February,  1833,  in  Henry  county, 
Indiana.  He  spent  his  boyhood  and  early  manhood  on  a  farm,  enjoying  common- 
school  advantages  for  education. 

Mr.  Parker  has  written  for  the  State  Journal,  at  Indianapolis,  and  for  other  papers 
of  his  native  State,  a  large  number  of  pleasant  poems,  many  of  which  are  on  subjects 
of  Western  interest. 


INDIAN  GRAVES. 

ALL  along  the  winding  river 
And  adown  the  shady  glen, 

On  the  hill  and  in  the  valley, 
Are  the  graves  of  dusky  men. 

We  are  garrulous  intruders 

On  the  sacred  burying  grounds 

Of  the  Manitou's  red  children, 
And  the  builders  of  the  mounds. 

Here  the  powah  and  the  sachem, 
Here  the  warrior  and  the  maid, 

Sleeping  in  the  dust  we  tread  on, 
In  the  forests  we  invade, 

Rest  as  calmly  and  as  sweetly, 
As  the  mummied  kings  of  old, 

Where  Gyrene's  marble  city 

Guards  their  consecrated  mould. 


through 


Through    the    woodland, 
meadow, 

As  in  silence  oft  I  walk, 
Softly  whispering  on  the  breezes, 

Seems  to  come  the  red  men's  talk ; 

Muttering  low  and  very  sweetly 
Of  the  good  Great-Spirit's  love, 

That  descends  like  dews  of  evening. 
On  His  children,  from  above. 


the 


Still  repeating  from  the  prophets, 
And  the  sachems  gray  and  old, 

Stories  of  the  south-west  Aiden, 
Curtained  all  around  with  gold  : 

Where  the  good  and  great  Sowanna 
Calleth  all  His  children  home, 

Through  the  hunting  grounds  eternal, 
Free  as  summer  winds  to  roam : 

Singing  wildest  songs  of  wailing 
For  the  dead  upon  their  way, 

On  the  four  days'  journey  homeward 
To  the  realms  of  light  and  day : 

Chanting  soft  and  gentle  measures, 
Lays  of  hope  and  songs  of  love, 

Now  like  shout  of  laughing  waters, 
Now  like  cooing  of  the  dove : 

Then,  anon,  their  feet  make  echo 
To  the  war  song's  fiendish  howl, 

And  revenge  upon  their  features 
Sets  his  pandemonian  scowl. 

See !  again,  the  smoke  is  curling 
From  the  friendly  calumet, 

And  the  club  of  Avar  is  buried, 
And  the  star  of  slaughter  set, 

But  alas  !  imairination, 

Ever  weaving  dream  on  dream, 


(  643) 


644 


BENJAMIN    S.    PARKER. 


[1850-60. 


Soon  forgets  the  buried  red  men 
For  some  more  congenial  theme. 

But  although  their  race  is  ended 

And  forever  over  here, 
Let  their  virtues  be  remembered, 

While  we  fervently  revere 

All  their  ancient  burial-places, 
Hill  and  valley,  plain  and  glen ; 

Honor  every  sacred  relic 
Of  that  fading  race  of  men. 

Gitche-Manito  has  called  them 

From  the  chase  and  war-path  here, 

To  the  mystic  land  of  spirits, 
In  some  undiscovered  sphere. 

In  a  land  of  light  and  glory, 

That  no  sachem's  eye  hath  seen, 

Where  the  streams  are  golden  rivers, 
And  the  forests  ever  green ; 

Where  the  winter-sun  descending 
Sets  the  south-west  sky  aflame, 

Shall  the  Indian  race  be  gathered 
In  the  great  Sowanna's  name. 


ISADORE. 

PUREST  souls  are  sometimes  given 

Into  forms  of  slightest  mould, 
Spirits  that  belong  to  heaven, 
As  the  lambkin  to  the  fold, 

That  no  earthly  love  can  stay 
From  their  native  shore  away. 

Spirits  very  meek  and  lowly, 

Such  as  in  the  days  to  come, 
Singing  praises  to  the  Holy, 
In  the  glad  millennium, 

Then  shall  tread  the  earth  alone, 
Till  a  thousand  years  are  gone. 


Such  a  soul  of  rarest  beauty, 

Oh  !  sweet  Isadore,  was  thine, 
As  along  the  path  of  duty 

Trode  thy  presence — half  divine, 
Till  from  out  the  courts  above, 
As  a  messenger  of  love, 

When  the  starry  lamps  were  swinging 

In  the  vaulted  blue  of  night, 
Came  an  angel  downward  winging, 
On  his  pinions  snowy  white, 
And  thy  spirit  bore  away 
To  the  realms  of  endless  day. 


FREEDOM. 

FREEDOM  is  the  child  of  heaven, 
Mortal's  priceless  boon,  God-given, 

Deathless  as  the  human  soul. 
All  the  ministers  of  evil, 
All  the  angels  of  the  Devil, 

Despots  that  a  space  control, 
Cannot  bind  this  foe  to  evil, 

Cannot  blast  it  from  the  soul. 

O  !  sing  praise  to  God  the  giver 
Of  this  boon  that  lives  forever, 

Nature,  with  thy  heavenly  voice ! 
Sun  that  shineth  in  thy  glory, 
Shout  aloud  great  freedom's  story, 

Till  the  distant  spheres  rejoice, 
Till  the  Earth,  grown  old  and  hoary, 

Shall  make  freedom's  God  its  choice. 

Hearken  thou,  0  !  fellow-mortal, 
Sitting  in  thy  doom's  sad  portal, 

To  the  voices  as  they  flow, 
How  the  starry  beams  that  quiver, 
And  the  swiftly-flowing  river, 

Shout  for  freedom  as  they  go, 
Then  arise,  thank  God  the  giver, 

And  for  freedom  strike  the  blow. 


MARY   A.    SHORT. 


MARY  ASENATH  SHORT,  daughter  of  Daniel  and  Anne  W.  Short,  was  born  at 
Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  in  the  summer  of  1833.  In  1850  she  removed  with  her 
parents  to  Columbus,  Ohio.  Her  first  published  poems  were  contributed  to  the 
Weekly  Ohio  Statesman,  then  conducted  by  Samuel  Medary.  She  is  well  known  as 
CULTIVATOR  MARY,  having  frequently  written  over  that  signature  for  the  Ohio  Cul 
tivator,  and  for  "Grace  Greenwood's"  Little  Pilgrim.  Her  later  poems,  published  in 
Arthur's  Home  Magazine  and  Beadle's  Home  Monthly,  have  been  signed  FANNY  TRUE. 
Miss  Short  is  now  a  resident  of  Plymouth,  Richland  county,  Ohio. 


ANOTHER  YEAR. 

LIKE  a  child  by  the  sea-shore  standing, 
Where  the  waves    sweep  up  in  their 
pride, 

I  stand  by  the  brink  of  the  closing  year, 
And  watch  its  receding  tide. 

Whatever  of  good,  whatever  of  wrong, 
To  its  dashing  waves  I  have  cast, 

Will  return  again,  when  the  tide  rolls  in 
With  the  scroll  of  the  mighty  Past ! 

Remorseless  waters  !  ye  mock  and  play, 

Ye  surge  o'er  many  a  wreck, 
O'er  many  a  wreck  of  home  and  heart, 

As  over  a  shattered  deck. 

But  on,  in  the  strength  of  its  native  pride, 

Sweeps  the  majestic  sea; 
Bearing  the  years,  with  their  records  and 
deeds, 

To  the  shores  of  Eternity ! 

Shall  we  idly  wander  upon  the  strand  ? 

Shall  we  gather  the  shells  that  lay 
Rose-hued  and  pearl,  amid  the  foam, 

Tossed  up  by  the  mocking  spray  ? 


Shall  we  heed  the  roar  of  the  restless  'deep, 
While  the  waves  roll  up  and  recede, 

And  the  record  they  bear — a  blank,  per 
chance, 
Or  a  wrong  or  unworthy  deed? 

A  white-capped  billow  is  nearing  the  shore, 
It  is  welcomed  with  hope  and  fear ; 

And  the  name  we  read  on  its  jeweled  crest, 
Is  the  name  of  another  year ! 

Then  on  the  breast  of  the  breaking  wave, 
Rich  tokens  of  good  we'll  cast, 

And   they   shall    return,   when   the   tide 

sweeps  in, 
With  the  scroll  of  the  mighty  Past ! 


GONE  HOME. 

"  DUST  to  dust,"  the  Preacher  said, 
Above  the  form  of  the  sleeping  dead ; 
"  Ashes  to  ashes,"  let  her  be, 
Alone  in  her  holy  purity. 


Folded  the  hands  upon  her  breast, 
Mocking  the  semblance  of  dreamy  rest ; 


(  645  ) 


646 


M  A  K  V    A.    S  HORT. 


[1850-60. 


The  closed  lips  part  no  more  with  breath, 
All  still  in  the  awful  hush  of  death. 

Smooth  the  pillow  beneath  her  head, 
Tenderly  touch  the  beautiful  dead  ; 
Who  shall  part  the  vail  for  thee, 
And  reveal  this  strange  death-mystery  ? 

Sweetly  humble,  her  Ufe  while  here, 
Fitful  with  changing  hope  and  fear ; 
Silent  and  pure,  she  walked  alone, 
Onward  and  upward  to  the  Throne ! 

On  through  a  world  that  was  cold  and  vain, 
On  through  bitterness,  grief  and  pain ; 
Keeping  her  soul,  'mid  trials  and  cares, 
Gentle  and  white  with  her  trusting  prayers. 

She  reached  at  last  the  Beautiful  Gate, 
No  need  for  the  weary  one  to  wait ; — 
Her  robes  were  such  as  the  angels  wear, — 
The  Gate  swung  back,  and  she  entered 
there ! 


LITTLE  NELL  WOOD. 

"  WHAT  makes  me  so  happy,  so  happy  to 
day?" 

Cried  little  Nell  Wood,  looking  up  from 
her  play ; 

The  while  a  sweet  wonderment  beamed  in 
her  eyes, 

As  though  'twere  a  strange  and  delightful 
surprise 

That  her  heart  with  such  gladness  and  joy 
should  be  stirred, 

And  dance  in  her  breast  like  a  sweet  sing 
ing  bird ! 

She  went  to  the  window,  and  while  the 
Spring  air 

Pushed  back  the  bright  waves  of  her  soft, 
curling  hair, 

It  brought  ne'er  a  vision  of  meadow  and 
trees, 

Or  roses  or  brooks,  or  sweet  honey-bees — 


She  saw  not  her  lamb  as  it  fed  by  the 

door, 
Or  the  kitten  that  played  by  her  feet  on 

the  floor, 
And  pulling  her  dress  in  a  sly  coaxing 

way, 
And  pleadingly  mewing,  as   much   as  to 

say — 
"  Come,  Nelly,  caress  me,  and  join  in  my 

play!" 
No,  she  saw  none  of  these,  for  her  thoughts 

were  all  bent 
Down  deep  in  her  soul,  with  a  wondering 

intent, 

Searching  out  the  bright  sun  whose  beau 
tiful  ray, 
Had  made  her  life  happy,  so  happy  that 

day ! 


So  happy — and  still  in  her  little  vexed 

brain 
She  was  pondering  the  question  again  and 

again, 
As   others   have   done,   and    ofttimes    in 

vain, 
Why  earth  was   so  bright,  and  her  glad 

spirit  thrilled 
With  kindness  and  love,  and  her  gentle 

heart  filled 
With  a  melody  new, — when  perchance  on 

the  morrow, 
The  hours  would  darken  with  tintings  of 

sorrow. 
'Twas  the  first  earnest  thought  of  her  little 

child-mind, 
Still  no  impulse  or  cause  for  her  joy  could 

she  find, 
So  the  happy  day  passed  in  her  innocent 

glee, 
Till  seated  at  night  on  her  fond  mother's 

knee, 
In  her  little  white  robe,  all  prepared  for 

her  bed, 
And   the   simple   petition  of  prayer  had 

been  said, 


1850-60,] 


M  A  R  V    A .    SHORT. 


647 


The  mother  with  tenderness  clasped  to  her 
breast, 

And  whispered  to  Nell,  ere  she  laid  her  to 
rest, 

"  When  Freddy  was  naughty,  and  struck 
you  this  morn, 

You  did  not  grow  angry  and  strike  in  re 
turn, 

But  all  the  day  long  you've  been  gentle 
and  mild, 

And  made  mother  proud  of  so  darling  a 
child!" 

A  beautiful  light  is  in  little  Nell's  eyes, 

A  new  thought  has  filled  her  with  joyful 
surprise — 

"  Now  I  know  it,"  she  cried,  "  it's  all  un 
derstood, 

'Twas  God  made  me  happy,  because  I  was 
good ! " 

'Tis  thus  we  find  wisdom,  all  pure,  unde- 

filed, 
When  God  sends  us  truth,  on  the  lips  of  a 

child. 
She  has  solved  the  great  problem,  sweet 

little  Nell  Wood, 
That  the  way  to  be  happy  is,  first  to  be 

good! 


APPRECIATION. 

I  ASK  not  for  a  kindly  deed,  ye  should 

My  name  applaud ; 
Give  me  no  formal  thanks  or  flatteries 

As  meet  reward. 
These  cannot  satisfy,  when  I  have  sought 

With  sweet  delight, 


Through  thy  long  absence,  with  a  faithful 
heart, 

To  do  just  right ! 

When  I  have  made  thy  wishes  all  my  own, 

And  gently  thought 

That  thou    wouldst    look  approvingly  on 
what 

My  hands  had  wrought ; 
I  ask  that  thou  appreciate,  and  if 

'Tis  fairly  won, 
Grant  me  the  blessing  of  a  smile,  and  say, 

"  It  is  well  done  ! " 


MAY. 

BEAUTIFUL  May, 
Like  a  child  at  play, 
Comes  tripping  along  her  joyous  way, — 
Tripping  along, 
With  mirth  and  song, 
Laughing,  loving  May ! 

Wiping  her  tears, 

Soothing  her  fears, 
April  no  longer  in  shadow  appears ; 

May's  soft  hand 

Like  a  magic  wand, 
Scattereth  blessings  all  over  the  land. 

The  bright  sun  gleams, 
On  hills  and  streams, 
There's  a  strange,  new  warmth  in  his 
glancing  beams. 

Ah !  blue-eyed  May 
Is  his  bride  to-day, 
Beautiful  maiden,  May ! 


GEORGE   W.  CROWELL. 


GEORGE  W.  CROWELL  was  born  in  the  village  of  Bloomfield,  Trumbull  county, 
Ohio,  in  the  year  1834.  He  assisted  his  father  to  till  the  soil  until  he  was  eighteen 
years  of  age.  He  then  went  to  Cleveland  and  engaged  in  mercantile  business,  which 
he  has  since  prosecuted  with  activity,  giving  only  occasional  attention  to  literature. 
Did  he  cultivate  his  poetical  abilities  as  assiduously  as  he  has  pursued  his  business, 
he  would  occupy  high  rank  among  the  poets  of  the  West. 


OUR  SIRES. 

WHERE  are  our  sires,  our  noble  sires, 
Those  men  of  toil  and  earnest  thought, 

Who  lit  our  sacred  vestal  fires, 
A  heritage  so  dearly  bought  ? 

Who  spurned  the  tyrants'  deeds  of  wrong, 
And  swept  o'er  wide  expanse  of  sea, 

'Mid  nature's  wilds  to  battle  long, 
And  swell  the  armies  of  the  free. 

Their  ax-strokes  rang  'mid  forests  deep, 
Their  cabins  rose  in  every  glade ; 

With  freedom  wild,  their  pulses  beat — 
Those  fearless  souls,  the  truly  brave. 

Our  domains  then,  a  wildering  wild, 
Of  savage  haunt  and  tangled  wood, 

Where  roamed  unfettered  nature's  child, 
And  forests  grand,  in  beauty  stood. 

They  crossed  our  many  flowing  streams, 
They  toiled  o'er  rugged  mountains  high, 

Where  proud  the  Mississippi  gleams, 
And  where  the  AlWhanies  lie. 


They  came,  the  aged  and  the  youth, 
Still  firmly  bearing  in  their  van 


The  sacred  ark  of  living  truth, 

To  worship  God,  at  peace  with  man. 

They  left  to  us  a  country  free, 
Un trammeled  by  despotic  hand, 

Of  rivers  vast  and  spreading  sea, 

Of  swelling  hills  and  mountains  grand. 

And  bright  upon  historic  page, 

Enrolled  their  names  shall  ever  shine 

With  peerless  luster,  age  on  age, 

Through   bright'ning   realm  of  coming 
time. 


VENUS. 

I  LEAN  upon  my  window-sill, 

And  gaze  up  to  the  evening  star, 
Which  glows  serenely  calm  and  still, 

In  purple  distance  there  afar  ; 
Which  hangs  a  golden  urn  of  light 

Within  the  silent  deepening  West, 
And  brighter  gleams  as  shades  of  night 

Brood  o'er  a  world's  deep,  pulseless  rest. 
And  earnest  thoughts  rise  in  my  soul, 

As  still  I  mark  its  onward  way, 


(648) 


1850  61).] 


GEORGE    W.    CROW  ELL. 


649 


Where  waves  of  light  retreating  roll 

Along  the  dim  confines  of  day. 
Where  pale  and  calm,  yet  stern  it  shines, 

And  leads  the  armies  of  the  night, 
Which  sweep  with    long   and    glistening 
lines, 

Like  bannered  hosts  of  peerless  might, 
Along  the  pathway  of  the  skies, 

Adown  the  blue  and  gleaming  arch, 
Where  day  in  fainting  splendor  flies 

Before  their  grand  triumphal  march. 

But  yet  shall  she  assert  her  might, 

When  through  the  gateway  of  the  dawn 
She  rolls  her  crimson  tides  of  light 

O'er  mountain  waste  and  smiling  lawn. 
And  thus,  I  thought,  as  ages  wane, 

How  in  the  cycles  vast  of  time 
Successive  souls  shall  rise  and  reign 

In  constellations  there  sublime. 
And  as  the  starry  fields  above 

Melt  in  the  golden  haze  of  day, 
Thus  in  the  boundless  realms  of  love 

The  stars  of  mind  shall  fade  away. 
Forever  rising  through  the  gloom, 

Their  endless  columns  onward  pour, 
The  nations  marching  to  the  tornb, 

They  pass  from  earth  for  evermore. 

And  thus  when  with  the  solemn  night 

I  see  her  armies  grand  and  vast, 
When  Venus  flames  in  splendor  bright, 

My  soul  steals  down  the  ages  past, 
I  see  the  star  there  brightly  shine, 

Chaldea's  pilgrims'  guiding  gem, 
The  star  which  first  with  light  divine 

Hung  o'er  the  vales  of  Bethlehem. 

0  child  of  Eve  !     O  boon  of  life  ! 

O  hope  unto  my  soul  that's  given ! 

1  gaze  from  out  the  dust  of  strife, 

From  earth  to  thee,  from  thee  to  heaven. 


LOOK  UP. 

LOOK  up !  the  future's  all  before ! 

There — let  the  past  deep  buried  lie  ; 
While  life  still  nerves  the  arm  to  do, 

Let  hope  yet  fire  the  soul  to  try. 

O  bow  not  down  before  the  blast, 
But  stand  erectly,  firm  and  strong ; 

And  bravely  meet  opposing  fate — 

What  though  the  struggle's  fierce  and  long! 

Yes,  bare  your  arm,  and  raise  your  head, 
And  let  your  gaze  be  upward  still ; 

The  palm  of  victory  lies  before, 
And  you  shall  grasp  it,  if  you  will ! 

The  world  may  seek  to  put  you  down ; 

But  that  the  world  can  never  do, 
If,  strong  in  conscious  truth  and  right, 

Your  purpose  firm,  you  firm  pursue. 

The  men  who've  made  a  living  mark, 
And  won  a  name  which  ne'er  can  die, 

Have  toiled  through  years  of  doubt  and 

gloom 
Up  to  their  immortality. 

How  bright  the  generative  scroll, 
Which  marks  the  long  descended  line, 

That  bore  the  sacred  ark  of  truth 
Adown  the  dusky  slopes  of  time ! 

They've  often  on  the  scaffold's  deck, 

And  often  in  the  lonely  cell, 
Maintained  the  dignity  of  right, 

And  triumphed  over  earth  and  hell. 

)  fainting  soul,  fresh  courage  take, 
While  deeds  like  these  immortal  shine  ; 

f  thou  wilt  struggle  to  the  end, 
The  victory  must  and  will  be  thine. 

A.nd  in  that  toil  each  drop  of  sweat 
Shall  flash  a  jewel  in  thy  crown ; 

?he  world  may  strew  your  path  with  thorns, 
But  it  can  never  put  you  down  ! 


CARRIE    S.    HIBBARD. 


THERE  is  a  beautiful  tenderness  in  all  the  poems  that  I  have  seen  from  the  pen  of 
"  Mabel  St.  Clair,"  which  must  already  have  endeared  her  to  many  hearts  that  have 
"  loved  and  lost."  For  me,  there  is  overmuch  odor  of  graves  and  coffin-varnish  in  her 
verse  ;  she  seems  to  have  gathered  nearly  all  her  flowers  from  a  place  of  tombs.  But 
she  has  a  genuine  poetic  feeling,  and  a  rare  felicity  of  expression,  that  counterbalance  her 
funereal  tendency,  and  her  occasional  want  of  art.  The  excellencies  and  faults  of  her 
poetry  are  too  obvious  for  comment.  She  always  seems  to  "  look  into  her  heart  and 
write." 

Miss  Hibbard  was  born  at  Millefield,  Athens  county,  Ohio,  in  1833,  and  now  resides 
at  Spring  Hill,  Fulton  county.  Under  the  nom  de  plume,  "  Mabel  St.  Clair,"  she  has 
contributed  to  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  Toledo  Blade,  and  Athens  Messenger. 


COUSIN  MILLIE. 

"I'D  be  a  butterfly,  I'd  be  a  butterfly" — 
Gaily  sang  out  cousin  Millie,  one  day, 

As  wildly  we  danced  'neath  the  broken- 
limbed  russet  tree, 
Long  years  ago,  one  mid-summer,  at  play. 

Up  went  her  arms,  with  their  bands  of  soft 

ribbon, 
Down  came  the  curls  o'er  her  shoulders 

of  snow, 

Trip  went  her  feet  to  her  lip  keeping  mu 
sic, 

Now  joyous  and  gushing,  now  plaintive 
and  low. 

I  kissed  the  red  lips  ere  they  paused  in 

their  singing, 
I  pushed  back  the  curls  from  her  sunny 

white  brow  ; 
And  up  from  my  heart  came  the  words 

that  I  uttered, 
"  Why,  Millie,  you're  almost  a  butterfly 


now. 


Many  long  years  have  gone  by  since  that 

summer, 

Years  that  have  burdened  those  shoul 
ders  with  care ; 
Years  that  have  hushed  the  glad  song  of 

that  morning, 

And  wrung  from  those  lips  the  deep  wail 
of  despair. 

Oft  when  I  meet  her  in  emblems  of  mourn 
ing* 
And  look  on  the  shadows  that  cloud  her 

sweet  brow, 
My  heart  faintly  echoes  the  song  of  that 

morning — 
Ah !  Millie,  you'd  be  a  sad  butterfly  now  ! 

But  when  o'er  her  heart  the  pale  hands 

shall  be  folded, 
When  from   her  brow  the  damp  locks 

put  away, 
The  beauty  He'll  give  her  in  mansions  of 

glory, 

Shall  not — like  the  butterfly's — be  fora 
day. 


(  050  ) 


1850-60.] 


CARRIE    S.    HIBBARD. 


651 


THE  OLD  DOOR-STONE. 

HALF  hidden  there  in  rustling  leaves, 

With  velvet  moss  o'ergrown, 
Dark  with  the  shade  the  willow  weaves, 

Deep  lies  the  old  door-stone ; 
I  sometimes  fancy  'tis  peopled  still, 

That  old  house  over  the  way — 
Fancy  it  echoes  the  joyous  shout 

Of  children  merry  at  play. 

Each  room  has  a  voice  that  I  love  to  hear, 

Each  haunt  where  our  feet  have  trod — 
Though  some  that  walked  beside  me  there 

Are  resting  now  under  the  sod. 
The  grass  that  grew  by  the  garden  wall 

Was  parted  aside  one  day, 
To  lay  down  our  Abbie,  the  dearest  of  all, 

To  sleep  'neath  the  shadow  for  aye. 

And  when  sweet  Minnie  went  a  bride, 

Crowned  with  our  hopes  and  prayers ; 
We  smiled  adieu,  but  the  old  door-stone 

Was  spattered  thick  with  tears. 
And  o'er  it,  too,  our  Charley  passed, 

But  he'll  never  cross  it  more, 
For  the  ocean  wave  sweeps  over  him  now, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  shore. 

And  I  mind  me  too,  when  the  old  door-stone 

Bore  prints  of  the  baby's  feet ; 
When  she  came  to  us  at  dewy  eve, 

With  pinks  and  violets  sweet. 
Ah,  had  she  lived  to  bear  her  part 

In  the  warfare  of  after-years, 
I  fear  that  both  her  eyes  and  heart 

Would  have  sometimes  filled  with  tears. 

We  may  seek  for  other  and  fairer  homes, 

But  dearest,  I  know,  and  best, 
Will  be  the  one  whose  hallowed  rooms 

Our  feet  in  childhood  press'd. 
Be  this  my  prayer — may  He  guide  us  all 

In  wisdom,  and  mercy,  and  love ; 
Till  He  calls  us  up  to  that  brighter  home 

"  Not  built  with  hands,"  above. 


LADY  MARY. 

LADY  Mary  is  riding  by, 

Her  black  plumes  nod  in  passing  breeze ; 
I  caught  the  glance  of  her  hazel  eye, 

Passing  under  the  gateway  trees. 
Lady  Mary  is  riding  by, 
Handsome  and  rich,  O !  why  not  I  ? 

Ah !  pause,  fair  girl,  ere  thus  you  gaze 
At  the  nodding  plumes  and  the  faultless 

dress, 

She  would  tell  thee,  child,  that  it  ill  re 
pays 

The  price  of  her  former  happiness; 
And  gladly  she'd  give  them  all  to  you, 
For  an  hour  of  peace  her  girlhood  knew. 

Those  glittering  bands  wreathe  a  weary 

brow, 

Those  satin  folds  cover  an  aching  heart, 
And  dark  as  her  sable  plumes  the  woe 
That  is  tearing  the  chords  of  her  life 

apart. 

An  unloved  wife,  what  more  than  this 
Could  chain  us  here  to  wretchedness  ? 

Strangers  meet  in  those  princely  halls, 
Though  bound  by  the  closest  of  human 

ties, 
And  the  mirror  that  hangs  on  those  gilded 

walls 

Too  often  reflects  back  tearful  eyes. 
Were  it   thine  to  choose,  say,  say,  sweet 

maid, 
Would  ye  purchase  wealth  at  the  price 

she's  paid  ? 

She  may  keep  her  servants,  her  lands,  her 

gold, 

Her  wealth,  her  home,  so  deadly  bought, 
'.  am  happier  here  a  thousandfold, 

And  her  pomp  and  beauty  I  envy  not. 
L,ady  Mary  is  riding  by, 
She  is  not  rich — 'tis  I,  'tis  I. 


GRANVILLE   M.   BALLARD. 


GRAXVILLE  MELLEN  BALLARD  was  born  at  Westport,  Oldham  county,  Kentucky, 
on  the  thirtieth  day  of  March,  1833.  His  father  was  a  physician.  Granville  enjoyed 
excellent  opportunities  for  education  in  boyhood,  and  graduated  in  the  scientific  de 
partment  of  Asbury  University,  at  Greencastle,  Indiana,  in  July,  1851.  He  has 
courted  the  Muses  since  his  boyhood,  and  has  contributed  poems  to  Eastern,  Southern 
ami  Western  magazines  and  newspapers.  His  poems  are  all  carefully  constructed, 
and  .-oine  of  them  are  distinguished  for  mellifluous  rhythm.  The  poems  selected  for 
tin-  volume  find  place  here,  not  because  they  are  his  best  poems,  but  because  they 
possess  local  interest  as  well  as  poetic  merit.  The  "  Ballad  of  Gnarlwood  Tree  "  is 
an  original  contribution  to  this  work.  Mr.  Ballard  is  now  the  principal  teacher  in  the 
State  Institution  for  the  Blind,  at  Indianapolis.  He  gives  his  leisure  to  a  poem  en 
titled  "Mizpah,"  which  he  proposes  to  publish  before  the  expiration  of  the  present 
year. 


WHERE?  — HERE. 

WHKRE  doth  the  sunlight  linger  latest? 
Where? 


Where  doth  Diana  smiling  meet  us  ? 
Win-re  doth  Delphinus  nightly  greet  us? 

Where? 

Where  doth  the  early  primrose  bloom? 
Where  doth  the  pink  exhale  perfume? 
Where  do  the  shadows  bring  no  gloom? 

Oh!  Where? 

Where  hath  the  sky  the  softest  blue? 
When-  hath  the  grass  the  greenest  hue? 
Where  doth  the  night  distil  her  dew, 
Into  the  lap  of  the  sullen  yew  ? 

Where?  Where? 

Where  do  the  waters  murmuring  low, 
KHleet  the  sunset's  golden  glow? 
Where  do  the  springs  forever  flow? 
Where  do  the  winds  most  softly  blow? 
Win-re  doth  moss  on  the  hill-sides  grow? 

Where?  oh!  Where? 
, (  652  ) 


Where  do  ivy  and  woodbine  cling, 

To  the  twisted  trunk  of  the  forest  king  ? 

Where  doth  the  blue-jay  loudly  sing  ? 

Where  is  the  lark  first  on  the  wing  ? 

Where  doth  the  robin  early  bring 

Her  brood  of  young  in  the  vernal  spring  ? 

Where?  Where? 
Not  in  the  cold  and  dreary  North, 
Whence  Boreas  sends  her  children  forth ; 
Nor  yet  beneath  those  Southern  skies, 
Where  withered  flowers  shut  their  eyes ; 
Nor  in  the  old  and  fabled  East, 
Where  adders  in  the  palace  feast. 
But  here,  oh  soul  that  panteth,  rest 
Beneath  the  blue  skies  of  the  West; 
Here  find  that  ocean  deep  and  wide 
Orer  which  the  bark  of  life  may  glide— 
Nor  wind,  nor  wave,  nor  aught  beside 
Can  give  to  hope  an  ebb  or  tide — 

Here. 


1850-60.] 


GRANVILLE    M.    BALLARD. 


653 


BLOOD  FOR  BLOOD. 

A  BALLAD   OF   GNARLWOOD  TREE.* 

RED  was  the  sun  in  Autumn, 

And  the  Autumn's  leaves  were  red ; 

And  the  green  old  earth  was  dappled  brown. 
And  the  sky  was  blue  overhead. 

The  alder  bush  was  leafless, 

The  sweet  fern's  leaves  were  seared, 
And  smoky,  and  dull,  and  old  and  gray, 

The  hills  far  off  appeared. 

From  caverns  came  the  west  wind, 

Where  sleep  her  fairy  clan, 
And  over  the  chords  of  a  viewless  harp 

The  west  wind's  fingers  ran. 

Nimbly  the  west  wind's  fingers 

Over  the  old  harp  sweptj 
And  a  thousand  monarchs  of  the  wood 

In  russet  and  purple  wept. 

It  was  a  mournful  music 

Such  as  the  Autumn  brings, 
For  it  was  the  weird  October  winds 

That  swept  the  wizard  strings. 

In  such  a  time  of  Autumn, 

In  years  now  long  gone  by, 
In  a  dense  old  forest  of  the  West 

Where  spires  now  pierce  the  sky, 

With  blankets  wound  about  them, 
And  with  bows  and  arrows  three, 


*  Prominent  among  the  objects  of  interest  in  the  beau 
tiful  capital  of  Indiana,  stands  Gnarlwood  Tree,  with 
which  the  incidents  of  this  ballad  are  associated.  It  is  a 
native  elm,  and  has  been  adjudged  by  travelers  to  stand 
without  a  rival,  in  all  the  cities  of  the  Union,  in  point  of 
beauty.  The  interest  that  clusters  around  it,  on  account 
of  the  tragedies  supposed  to  have  been  enacted  beneath 
its  branches,  should  book  it  upon  the  page  of  romance. 
This  tree  has  attained  an  altitude  of  about  ninety  feet, 
and  the  greatest  diameter  of  its  top  is  almost  one  hundred 
feet.  Its  trunk  measures  one  hundred  and  eighteen 
inches  in  circumference,  at  a  point  equally  distant  from 
the  ground  and  the  lowest  limbs.  Its  massive  crown  out 
lines  a  beautiful  curve,  and  its  roots  extend  over  an  area 
of  nearly  nine  hundred  square  yards. 


Big  Ears,  Elk,  and  Eagle  Eye  sat 
Under  old  Gnarlwood  Tree. 

Sad  and  sullen  they  sat, 

Dreamers  at  noon  of  day ; 
And  they  looked  intently  upon  the  earth, 

But  neither  a  word  did  say. 

From  noon  till  night  they  sat 

Under  old  Gnarlwood  Tree, 
When    Big    Ears,    chief    of    the    Dela- 
wares, 

Rose  up,  and  thus  spoke  he : 

"  Brothers,  this  day  we've  passed 

In  penance  for  the  dead; — 
Blood  for  blood  was  the  olden  law 

That  turned  our  fathers  red. 

"  Swift  as  the  fallow-deer 

I  vow  to  speed  away, 
Nor  heed  the  elk  nor  the  buffalo 

Till  I  the  pale  face  slay." 

He  knit  his  brow  in  wrath, 
He  scowled  on  earth  and  sky, 

And  the  hot  revenge  that  warmed  his  blood, 
Shot  fire  from  his  eye. 

Then  Elk,  an  Indian  brave, 

Grim  as  the  twilight  oak, 
Arose  as  silently  as  the  moon 

And  these  words  fiercely  spoke : 

"  Black  is  the  evil  bird — 

Black  are  the  clouds  of  night — 

Black  was  the  young  Pokomah's  hair, 
But  contrast  makes  them  white, — 

"  White  as  the  wild  swan's  breast 
Whose  feathers  plume  this  dart, 

White  as  the  winter's  new-born  snow, 
Beside  the  pale  man's  heart. 

"  Over  the  dreary  moor, 

Over  the  steep  hill-side, 
And  over  the  prairie  and  through  the  wood, 

And  over  the  rivers  wide, 


GRANVILLE    M.    BALLARD. 


[1850-(>0. 


"  Early  and  late  and  long, 

Through  rain  and  drifting  snow, 

In  the  blaze  of  day  and  the  black  of  night, 
In  quest  of  blood  I'll  go." 

Enjrle  Eye  next  stood  up, 

Of  all,  he  was  the  pride  ; 
In  mournful  numbers  he  bewailed 

The  fate  of  his  young  bride. 

"  Where  has  Pokomah  gone  ? 

Pokomah,  where  is  she  ? 
Oh,  wind  that  bloweth  her  long  black  hair, 

Bring  my  Pokomah  to  me. 

"  For  oh !  she  was  the  light 
That  nestled  in  my  eye ; 
She  made  my  heart  as  light  as  the  cloud 
•  That  swims  upon  the  sky. 

"  Lighter  than  eider-down 

Was  my  Pokomah's  step, 
And  brighter  her  dreams  than  gilded  morn, 

When  on  my  arm  she  slept. 

"  Oh,  treacherous  pale-face  man, 
Thy  breath  doth  taint  the  air ; 

My  faithful  arrow  shall  pierce  thy  heart, 
For  thou  hast  wronged  me  there. 

"  I'll  scour  the  forest  through 

In  search  of  the  cowardly  wight ; 

Blood  for  blood  is  the  red  man's  code, 
And  I'm  for  blood  this  night." 

Then  all  was  still  again 

Beneath  old  Gnarlwood  Tree, 

And  through  its  branches  the  west  wind 

played 
A  mournful  melody. 

And  all  the  stars  evolved 

A  gentle  and  holy  light, 
A-  I  Jig  Kars,  Elk,  and  Eagle  Eye  vowed 

To  be  revenged  that  night. 

But  when  the  rosy  morn 
Betokened  the  early  day, 


Those  Indian  braves,  with  bow  and  quiver, 
Were  many  a  mile  away. 

They  held  an  even  course 

Toward  the  rising  sun, 
Nor  deemed  their  journey  in  quest  of  blood 

But  only  just  begun. 

Onward  through  beechen  groves, 
And  thickets  of  wild  pawpaw, 

F.eeding  upon  the  hickory  nut, 
And  on  the  ripening  haw; 

Over  the  mighty  rivers, 

And  over  the  winding  rills ; 
And  over  a  thousand  shadowy  vales, 

And  over  a  thousand  hills ; 

Onward  they  held  their  way, 
Through  many  a  day  and  night, 

Until  the  mountains  had  heaved  in  view 
And  then  were  lost  to  sight. 

Then  cautiously  and  slow 

Their  journey  they  pursued, 
For  over  the  hill-tops  just  ahead 

A  dozen  houses  stood. 

One  from  all  the  rest 

Nestled  amid  the  green, 
And  over  its  wooden  lintels  climbed 

The  grateful  eglantine. 

Sweet  briers  from  the  forest 

Within  the  garden  grew, 
And,  dropping  gold,  laburnums  stood 

From  Europe's  gardens,  too. 

Within  its  flowery  walks 

There  stood  a  maiden  fair, 
And  she  was  placing  the  Autumn  flowers 

Among  her  chestnut  hair. 

Luello  was  her  name, 

A  lady  of  high  degree, 
Born  in  a  land  of  soft  sundowns 

Beyond  the  chiming  sea. 


1850-60.] 


GRANVILLE    M.    BALLARD. 


655 


One  year  before  she  came 

From  silvery  Guadalquivir, 
Never  to  strike  the  sweet  guitar 

Again  upon  that  river. 

And  in  that  cottage  lived 

Her  cousin,  Rodriga, 
A  hunter  bold — but  now,  alack, 

An  hundred  miles  away. 

The  braves  approached  the  fence, 

For  'twas  the  closing  day, 
And  Eagle  Eye  scaled  the  picket  walls 

And  seized  upon  his  prey. 

And  when  the  morning  dawned, 

The  captive  and  the  three 
Had  journeyed  many  a  silent  league 

Toward  old  Gnarlwood  Tree. 

For  there  was  Pokomah  slain 

By  Rodriga's  own  hand, 
And  thitherward,  many  and  many  a  moon 

Tended  the  captive  band. 

The  winter  had  come  and  gone, 

The  flower  encased  the  bee, 
And  green  leaves  welcomed  the  breezes 
back 

From  off  the  southern  sea ; 

The  vernal  sun  hung  high, 

And  loudly  sang  the  jay, 
And  flowers  exhaled  a  sweet  perfume 

Upon  the  first  of  May, 

When  she  that  once  had  lived 

In  halls  beyond  the  tide, 
Knelt  a  captive  upon  the  green 

Where  young  Pokomah  died. 

As  Eagle  Eye  drew  his  bow, 

Again  these  words  he  said, 
"  Blood  for  blood  was  the  olden  law 

That  turned  our  fathers  red." 

Swifter  than  elk  or  deer 
Sped  his  unerring  dart, — 


It  parted  the  liquid  fields  of  air, 
Then  pierced  Luello's  heart. 

Thus  in  years  now  olden, 

And  upon  the  first  of  May, 
Where  the  grass  grows  green  and  the  sky 
hangs  blue, 

And  the  robin  sings  all  day, 

Perished  the  beautiful  maiden, 
Who  came  o'er  the  chiming  sea, 

Even  from  silvery  Guadalquivir, 
Unto  old  Gnarlwood  Tree. 


ZULA  ZONG. 

OVER  a  meadow  where  dandelions 

Were  crowned  with  airy  balls, 
Stood  a  cottage  ;  and  eglantine, 
And  climbing  roses  loved  to  twine, 
With  many  a  beautiful  antique  vine, 
Over  its  wooden  walls. 

And  in  that  cottage  long  years  ago, 
Lived  beautiful  Zula  Zong. 

Her  voice  was  clear  as  a  silver  bell ; 

And  oh !  her  laugh,  it  cast  a  spell 

Over  the  depths  of  sorrow's  well, 
Unknown  to  the  minstrel's  song. 

And  over  that  meadow  but  yesterday, 

The  old  path  led  me  on  ; 
I  heard  no  voice,  as  in  years  afore, 
And  dimpled  cheeks  I  saw  no  more — 
With  tears  of  sorrow  my  eyes  run  o'er 

For  beautiful  Zula  Zong. 

Now  alders  grow  where  hollyhocks  grew, 

Over  that  meadow  all  brown  ; 
And  red  briers  nod  to  the  mistletoe, 
Where  myrtle  and  woodbine  years  ago, 
Were  trained  with  a  hand  as  white  as 

snow, 
Over  that  meadow  so  brown. 


JOHN   T.   SWARTZ. 


JOHN  T.  SWARTZ,  a  contributor  to  the  Ladies'  Repository,  and  to  the  Western 
Christian  Advocate  of  Cincinnati,  was  born  in  Clark  county,  Indiana,  September 
eleventh,  1833.  His  parents  removed  to  Cincinnati  in  1841,  and  John  T.  attended 
the  public  schools  until  he  was  prepared  for  the  Woodward  High  Schoolr  from  which 
he  graduated  in  1854.  He  was  immediately  engaged  as  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  dis 
trict  schools,  and  was  thus  employed,  when  seized  with  the  disease  which  caused  his 
death,  March  fifth,  1859.  He  was  a  young  man  of  scholarly  attainments  and  exemplary 
character,  and  had  his  life  been  spared  would  have  made  a  name  in  our  literature. 


THERE  ARE  NO  TEARS  IN  HEAVEN. 

I  MET  a  child ;  his  feet  were  bare ; 

His  weak  frame  shivered  with  the  cold; 
His  youthful  brow  was  knit  by  care, 
His  flashing  eye  his  sorrow  told. 

Said  I,  "  Poor  boy,  why  weepest  thou  ?" 
He  said,  "My  parents  both  are  dead; 
I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head ; 
O,  I  am  lone  and  friendless  now ! " 
Not  friendless,  child  ;  a  Friend  on  high 
For  you  his  precious  blood  has  given ; 
Cheer  up,  and  bid  each  tear  be  dry — 
"  There  are  no  tears  in  heaven." 

I  saw  a  man  in  life's  gay  noon, 

Stand  weeping  o'er  his  young  bride's  bier ; 
"And  must  we  part,"  he  cried,  "so  soon!" 
As  down  his  cheek  there  rolled  a  tear. 
"Heart-stricken  one,"  said  I,  "weep 

not;" 
"Weep  not!"    in  accents  wild  he 

cried, 

"  But  yesterday  my  loved  one  died, 
And  shall  she  be  so  soon  forgot?" 
Forgotten?     No!  still  let  her  love 

Su-tain  thy  heart,  with  anguish  riven; 
Strive  thou  to  meet  thy  bride  above, 
And  dry  your  tears  in  heaven. 


I  saw  a  gentle  mother  weep, 

As  to  her  throbbing  heart  she  press'd 
An  infant,  seemingly  asleep, 

On  its  kind  mother's  shelt'ring  breast. 
"  Fair  one,"  said  I,  "  pray,  weep  no 

more ; " 

Sobbed  she,  "The  idol  of  my  hope 
I  now  am  called  to  render  up ; 
My  babe  has  reached  death's  gloomy 

shore." 

Young  mother,  yield  no  more  to  grief, 
Nor  be  by  passion's  tempest  driven, 
But  find  in  these  sweet  words  relief, 
"There  are  no  tears  in  heaven." 

Poor  trav'ler  o'er  life's  troubled  wave — 

Cast  down  by  grief,  o'erwhelmed  by  care — 
There  is  an  arm  above  can  save, 
Then  yield  not  thou  to  fell  despair. 
Look  upward,  mourners,  look  above  ! 
What    though   the   thunders   echo 

loud ; 
The  sun  shines  bright  beyond  the 

cloud ; 

Then  trust  in  thy  Redeemer's  love. 
Where'er  thy  lot  in  life  be  cast, 

Whate'er  of  toil  or  woe  be  given — 
Be  firm — remember  to  the  last, 
"There  are  no  tears  in  heaven." 


(  656  ) 


CARRIE   CLARK   PENNOCK. 


IN  the  years  1856  and  1857,  a  number  of  poems,  which  attracted  attention  by  the 
promise  they  gave  of  future  excellence,  were  published  in  the  Mahoning  Register, 
conducted  by  James  Dumars,  at  Youngstown,  Ohio.  The  following  year  graceful 
poems  from  the  same  pen  were  given  to  the  readers  of  the  Ohio  Farmer,  and  of 
the  Home  Journal  of  New  York  city.  Several  of  them  were  spoken  of  with  merited 
approbation  by  Nathaniel  P.  Willis.  Their  author,  Carrie  Clark,  is  a  native  of  Ma- 
honing  county,  Ohio.  She  was  born  at  Boardman,  September  first,  1833.  Her 
parents  are  farmers,  and  her  early  life  was  spent  in  work  rather  than  in  study,  but  an 
irrepressible  passion  for  reading  and  writing,  led  her,  as  the  era  of  womanhood  ap 
proached,  to  the  acquisition  of  an  excellent  English  education.  She  writes  from  im 
mediate  impulse,  and  generally  upon  themes  of  ideal  beauty. 

In  October,  1859,  Miss  Clark  was  married,  at  the  homestead,  to  J.  H.  Pennock,  a 
physician  who  practices  his  profession  at  Bennington,  Morrow  county,  Ohio. 

The  poem  "  Leonore  "  is  first  published  in  these  pages.  It  is  "  of  imagination  all 
compact." 


LEONORE. 

WHERE  the  Adige  sings  its  prelude 

Sweetly  to  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  the  Carnic-Alpine  mountains 

Send  their  torrents  to  the  lea ; 
Where  the  flashing  Adriatic 

Rocks  the  fearless  gondolier, 
And  the  barcarole  is  murmured, 

Plaintively,  from  cavalier ; 
Where  the  dark  Tyrolean  peasant 

Tunes  at  eve  his  simple  reed, 
To  the  dark-eyed  Tyrol  maiden, 

Tripping  o'er  the  dewy  mead ; 
There,   where   Adige   sends    her 
ute — 

Silvery  tribute  to  the  shore, 
Stands  an  old  and  ruined  castle, 

Strangely  traced  with  ivy  o'er ; 
And  its  crumbling  walls  still  echo 

To  the  name  of  Leonore — 


42 


trib- 


(657) 


Lost  Le'nore, 

Bright  Le'nore, 
High-born,  peerless  Leonore. 
And  the  waves  along  the  shore, 
Ever,  ever,  evermore, 
Chant  the  dirge  of  fair  Le'nore. 
Through  the  castle's  pillared  halls, 
Mournfully  a  spirit  calls, 

Leonore, 

Fair  Leonore, 
At  rest  upon  th'  eternal  shore, 

Leonore, 

Bright  Leonore — 
Her  white  wings  folded  evermore. 

Round  the  castle  turrets  high 
Floats  the  bird  with  sleepless  eye ; 
From  the  loop-hole's  dizzy  height, 
Shrieks  tin-  dusky  bird  of  night; 
And  through  tower  and  frescoed  room, 
Damp  and  lonely  as  the  tomb, 
Flits  the  bird  of  ebon  plume. 


658 


CARRIE    C.    PEN  NOCK. 


[1850-60. 


Long  the  seneschal  hath  slept, 
Since  the  maiden  hath  been  wept, 
And  the  clanging  drawbridge's  fall, 
Rings  no  more  through  castle-hall ; 
Stately  knights  and  dames  no  more 
Tread  the  halls  of  Ellasmore ; 
And  the  lonely  turret-bell, 
When  it  tolled  the  fatal  knell 
Of  Le'nore,  the  lost  Le'nore, 
Woke  its  echoes  nevermore  ; 

Strange  to  tell, 

The  turret  bell 
Tolled  its  own  and  Le'nore's  knell. 

Once,  from  yonder  battlements, 

Looking  o'er  the  dim  sea-shore, 
Out  upon  the  Adriatic, 

Gazed  the  maiden  Leonore ; 
Ever  watching,  ever  praying, 

As  she  scanned  the  waters  o'er, 
For  the  white  sail,  for  the  pennon, 

For  the  one  that  came  no  more ; 
Northward,  then,  along  the  Adige, 

To  the  Tyrol's  dusky  height, 
Gazed  the  maiden,  till  her  beauty 

And  her  brightness  mocked  the  night. 
Came  no  white  plume,  came  no  horseman, 

Came  no  sound  of  bugle-horn  ; 
Watching,  till  the  distant  orient 

Bade  approach  of  early  morn ; 
Only  sang  the  gentle  Adige 

Sweetly  to  the  murmuring  sea ; 
Only  sang  the  Alpine  torrents 

Hoarsely  to  the  verdant  lea ; 
Only  rang  the  mastiff's  baying 

Sadly  through  the  castle-hall; 
Only  shrieked  the  dusky  owlet 

From  his  loop-hole  in  the  wall ; 
Only  moaned  the  dirge-like  waters 

On  the  Adriatic  shore  ; 
Still  Le'nore, 
The  lost  Le'nore, 
Gazed  for  one  that  came  no  more. 

Once  the  gray-haired  seneschal, 
Looking  upward  through  the  night, 


Caught  a  gleam  of  snowy  vestments, 

Fluttering  from  the  turret's  height, 
And  a  voice  of  earnest  prayer, 

Died,  like  music,  on  the  air ; 
And  the  old  man  soothly  swore, 

'Twas  the  voice  of  Leonore. — 
Idle  tale  at  Ellasmore — 
Laughed  the  old  man's  words  to  scorn, 

Deemed  they  'twas  some  form  of  air, 
Shunned  the  haunted  castle  turret, 

Left  the  maiden  to  her  prayer. 
Last  was  she  of  that  proud  race, 
Destined  soon  to  share  a  place, 
By  her  haughty  sires  of  yore, 
By  the  lords  of  Ellasmore, 
Sweetly  sleeping  where  the  Adige 
Murmurs  to  the  dim  sea-shore, 
And  the  troubled  Adriatic 
Chants  the  dirge  of  fair  Le'nore. 

Watched  the  gray-haired  seneschal, 

And  the  band  at  Ellasmore — 
Watched  the  maiden  growing  paler, 

Watched  the  fading  flower,  Le'nore. 
Till,  at  times,  in  sooth  it  seemed  them 

Not  Le'nore,  their  blessed  Le'nore, 
But  an  angel  sent  to  guide  them, 

Upward,  to  the  eternal  shore. 

Gone,  one  morning,  was  the  maiden, 

Gone  from  castle  and  from  tower; 
And  the  Adige  knew  not  of  her, 

Nor  her  own  most  secret  bower ; 
And  for  beauteous  Leonore, 
Was  wailing  loud  at  Ellasmore, 
And  cheeks  were  blanched  by  sudden 

fears, 
And  dark  eyes  shone  through  trembling 

tears. 

Could  the  Alpine  torrents  spoken, 
They  could  told  of  lost  Le'nore, 

Kneeling  on  the  stony  turret, 

Gazing  toward  the  dim  sea-shore ; 

And  the  stars,  those  silent  watchers, 
They  could  told  of  lost  Le'nore, 


1850-60.] 


CARRIE    C.    PENNOCK. 


659 


Where  the  battlements'  dark  outlines 
Crown  the  heights  of  Ellasmore. 

Spake  the  aged  seneschal : 

"  Bring  to  me  the  turret  key, 
Northward,  looking  o'er  the  Tyrol, 
Southward  o'er  the  billowy  sea ; 
For  I  bethink  me  yesternight 
I  caught  a  gleam  of  vestments  white, 
Upon  the  battlements'  dark  height ; 
And  words,  methought,  of  earnest  prayer 
And  white  hands  clasped  in  moonlit  air 
'Twas  Leonore,  for  ne'er  before 
Prayed  maiden  like  blessed  Leonore." 
Some  spake  of  sacrilege,  to  dare 
The  turret's  strange,  and  weird-like  air 
And  bade  to  chapel  first,  to  prayer. 
But  swiftly,  through  the  castle-hall, 
He  hies  him  to  its  northern  wall, 
Plants  the  huge  key,  and  quickly  dares 
The  turret's  dark  and  tortuous  stairs. 

The   height   was   won ;    there,   on   the 

floor, 

Her  face  turned  toward  the  dim  sea-shore 
Lay  Leonore,  fair  Leonore, 
Bright,  beauteous,  hapless  Leonore, 
Her  pillow  but  the  turret  stone, 
The  turret  shadows  o'er  her  thrown, 
And  her  dark  tresses,  like  the  night, 
Vailing  a  form  of  wondrous  light. 

And  they  laid  her  where  the  Adige 

Sings  its  prelude  to  the  sea, 
And  the  dark  Tyrolean  mountains 

Send  their  torrents  to  the  lea ; 
And  the  castle  now  is  crumbling, 

Gone  the  light  of  Ellasmore, 
Gone,  to  beacon  onward  wand'rers, 

Seeking  for  that  unseen  shore ; 
Done  with  watching,  done  with  praying 

On  the  turret's  lonely  height, 


Done  with  waiting  and  with  weeping, 
Through  the  long  and  weary  night; 

And  the  casket  sweetly  slumbers, 
Where  the  Adige  to  the  shore 

Sends  its  tribute,  and  the  billows 
Chant  the  dirge  of  fair  Le'nore. 


A  PICTURE. 

'TwAS  of  a  maiden,  wondrous  fair, 
With  wilderirig  curls  of  raven  hair, 
That  draped  her  snowy  neck  and  arms, 
And  kissed  her  bosom's  dimpled  charms, 
Yet  through  whose  meshes,  dark  as  night, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  beauty  bright ; 
As  sometimes  through  a  cloud,  afar, 
Come  glimmerings  of  the  evening  star. 
One  snowy  arm  across  her  breast, 
The  silken   bodice  lightly  pressed ; 
And  nestled  'mid  the  laces  light, 
Four  dimpled  fingers,  soft  and  white ; 
As  though,  before  the  mirror's  face, 
With  careless  and  bewitching  grace, 
She  dressed  her  swaying  form,  perchance, 
To  glide  through  some  fair  country  dance ; 
And  then  her  eye,  so  soft,  so  bright, 
Gazelle-like  in  its  changeful  light, 
Beneath  whose  darkly  fringed  lid, 
Young  Cupid  kept  his  sorrows  hid, 
And  sent,  with  swift,  unerring  art, 
Their  stinging  points  to  many  a  heart. 
The  lips  were  closed,  yet  all  the  while, 
lalf  trembled  'twixt  a  sigh  and  smile, 
or  Love,  the  rogue,  though  unconfessed, 
lad  stolen  coyly  to  her  breast, 
lluming  with  his  tender  rays, 
?he  picture  fair,  that  those  who  gazed, 
light  drink  somewhat, from  that  sweet  face, 
An  angel's  purity  and  grace. 


LOUISA   A.  M'GAFFEY. 


LOUISA  AMELIA  PRATT,  who  is  known  as  RUTH  CRAYNE,  was  born  on  the  twen 
tieth  day  of  January,  1833,  at  the  residence  of  her  parents,  Fletcher  and  Maria  Pratt, 
who  are  influential  among  the  prosperous  farmers  of  Darby  Plains,  Madison  county, 
Ohio.  Miss  Pratt  was  carefully  educated,  and  she  rewarded  the  care  bestowed  upon 
her  by  attaining  unusual  excellence,  especially  in  the  higher  mathematics,  and  in  clas 
sical  studies.  Her  poems  have  been  chiefly  published  in  the  Ohio  Cultivator,  the 
Odd  Fellows1  Casket  and  Review,  Cincinnati,  and  the  Ohio  Farmer.  They  have  all 
appeared  in  print  at  the  earnest  solicitations  of  friends,  who  recognized  in  them  fresh 
ness  of  thought  and  style  deserving  the  attention  of  lovers  of  poetry. 

Miss  Pratt  was  married  April  fourth,  1855,  to  John  McGafi'ey  an  attorney  of 
Springfield,  Ohio,  where  she  now  resides. 


THE  HILL-TOP. 

STAY,  rest  awhile,  the  way  was  steep ; 

This  shade  is  cool,  this  wind  is  balm, 
And  all  the  world  lies  tranced  in  deep 

And  breathless  hush  of  noonday  calm. 
Sit  down,  sweet  friend — this  mossy  seat 

Invites  repose — while  we  recount 
The  long,  long  miles  our  weary  feet 

Have  measured  to  this  lofty  mount. 

The  hidden  pitfalls  we  have  passed, 

By  God's  good  grace,  in  safety  o'er, 
The  bridges  frail,  on  which  we've  crossed, 

Above  the  torrent's  sullen  roar, 
The  gloomy  pines  that  hid  the  day, 

The  traceless  plains  of  naked  sand, 
The  rugged  roughness  of  the  way 

That  mocked  our  strength  on  every  hand: 

All  these,  and  more,  behind  us  lie, 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  fair  scene, 

This  circling  glow  of  earth  and  sky, 
Our  journey  seems  a  vanished  dream. 


How  full  of  God  the  blue  above, 
Instinct  with  God  the  world  below, 

And  radiant  stairways  made  by  love, 
On  which  His  angels  come  and  go, 

Seem  standing  between  earth  and  heaven, 

On  days  of  heavenly  peace  like  this, 
And  softly  comes  the  word  "  Forgiven," 

For  all,  in  all,  our  lives  amiss, 
And  then  we  think  our  days  shall  be 

(How   vainly    think)    white    blocks    to 

grace 
The  Temple  of  our  lives,  that  He 

May  always  find  a  dwelling-place. 

So  looking  o'er  this  toilsome  day, 

On  outstretched  wings  my  fancy  flies, 
And  as  this  mount  before  us  lay, 

The  Hill  of  Life  before  us  lies. 
I  know  the  morning  dew  is  gone  ; 

That  romance  can  deceive  no  more ; 
That  the  cool  baptism  of  the  dawn 

Our  faded  flowers  can  ne'er  restore. 


660  ) 


1850-60.] 


LOUISA    A.    McGAFFEY. 


But  only  that  fresh  blooms  may  spring, 

More  fadeless  and  more  fair  than  they 
But  only  that  our  souls  may  sing 

A  deeper,  more  inspiring  lay ; 
Outside  youth's  barred  and  crystal  gates, 

Rise  deeper  flood-tides  of  the  soul, 
Larger  the  destiny  that  awaits, 

Wider  the  waters  round  us  roll. 

Lo !  part  way  up  the  steep  ascent, 

'Mid  fates  of  ice  and  fire  we  stand, 
Three  in  one  mystic  union  blent, 

An  angel  guide  on  either  hand. 
How  can  we  fear,  how  shall  we  fear, 

With  mercies  showering  from  above, 
And  voices  whispering  far  and  near, 

"  God's  providence  is  always  love?" 

Soon  shall  the  prospect  wider  grow, 

New  worlds  spring  up  beneath  our  gaze 
And  airs  instinct  with  sweetness  blow 

Along  the  flow'ry  mountain  ways. 
While  looking  back,  the  rugged  plain 

O'er  which  we  come  shall  seem  so  fair, 
We  only  see  its  gulfs  of  pain 

O'erfiow  with  purple  morning  air. 

How  beautiful  our  upward  path, 

With  God  to  grant  our  daily  need ! 
Our  guardian  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 

The  white-browed  innocent  we  lead, 
Whose  sweet,  wide  eyes  of  wonder  are 

Wells  of  delight,  brimful  of  joy, 
W'herein,  as  in  the  morning  star, 

Heaven's  light  reflects  without  alloy. 

The  summit  gained,  how  wide  the  view, 

How  fairer  than  our  fairest  dreams ! 
How  melt  the  morning  tops  in  blue, 

How  rich  the  light  that  round  us  streams  ! 
Our  passions  lay  themselves  to  sleep, 

The  shade  is  cool,  the  wind  is  balm, 
And  all  our  world  lies  tranced  in  deep 

And  holy  hush  of  noonday  calm. 

Not  long  we  linger ;  time  cries  "  On  ! " 
And  onward  with  the  waning  day, 


With  faltering  steps  we  go,  and  wan, 
But  love  immortal  leads  the  way ; 

We  shall  not  fear  the  dense  white  vail, 
That  shrouds  the  valley  at  our  feet, 

For  underneath  that  phantom  pale, 

Hides  Mirza's  Vision  grand  and  sweet. 

So  from  these  autumn  ripened  hours, 

I've  drawn  these  fancies  to  beguile, 
With  their  symbolic  fruits  and  flowers, 

Our  downward  way  for  many  a  mile. 
But  come,  the  day  wanes  on  apace, 

The  evening  wind  begins  to  blow, 
The  way  is  rough  in  many  a  place, 

The  valley  darkens  ;  let  us  go. 


MORNING  IN  THE  CITY. 


4$) 


OLD  and  clear  o'er  roof  and  spire 
The  morning  light  is  breakinj 
And  like  a  giant  in  its  might, 
The  city  is  awaking. 

No  choral  greeting  from  the  birds, 
No  sound  of  cattle  lowing, 
3  swift,  free  winds  on  tireless  wings, 
O'er  field  and  woodland  blowing. 

3ut  faintly  on  the  frosty  air, 

A  low  and  distant  humming, 
That  growing  near  and  nearer  still, 

Proclaims  the  day  is  coming. 

Through  wide,  still  streets,  with  merry  clang, 

The  morning  bells  are  pealing, 
Through  murky  lanes,  where  misery  hides, 
A  cold  gray  light  is  stealing. 


pours  the  human  tide  along, 
Old  man  and  maiden  tender, 
rave  manhood  and  youth's  happy  face, 
In  the  early  morning  splendor. 


6C.2 


LOUISA    A.    McGAFFEY. 


[1850-00. 


The  long  streets  roar  with  hurrying  feet, 

And  din  tumultuous,  dire, 
And  fierce  the  city's  pulses  beat 

Through  all  her  veins  of  fire. 

Swart  Labor,  with  his  hundred  hands, 
Strikes,  and  the  mighty  ringing 

With  life's  deep  pulses  keepeth  time, 
And  with  the  poet's  singing. 

Within  his  workshop,  smoke  embrowned, 
With  valorous  blows  he  fashions 

Bright  links,  that  bind  to  frozen  North 
The  tropic's  glowing  passions ; 

That  links  all  nations  into  one, 

In  thought  and  in  desire, 
And  Hashes  over  lonely  seas, 

The  swift,  electric  fire ; 

That,   lightning-winged,  spurns  time  and 
space, 

And,  herald  of  new  ages, 
Translates  to  us  in  words  of  flame 

The  future's  glowing  pages. 

So  as  I  write,  the  glad,  bright  day 
Looks  down  with  sweet  forewarning, 

A  louder  hum  now  fills  the  streets, 
And  closed  the  gates  of  morning. 


JUNE. 

THROUGH  a  gateway  of  cloud  amber,  rose- 

hued  and  golden, 
From  the  limitless  heaven  came  the  glo 
ry  of  June ; 
The  mountains  smiled  grandly,  the  pines 

waved  a  welcome, 
And  rivers  and  rivulets  chorused  in  tune 

Even  the  tyrant  old  ocean,  forgetting  his 

anger, 

Clasped  his  children,  the  islands,  in  lov 
ing  embrace, 


And  all  his  white  shores  wooed  with  mur 
murous  kisses, 

Subdued    by  the  magical  light  of  her 
face. 

To  deck  the  gray  earth  in  the  fairest  of 

raiment, 
A    thousand    bright   blooms    lent  their 

beautiful  aid, 
And  down  through  the  twinkling  leaves  of 

the  forest, 

June    peeping,  saw,  smiling,  the  show 
that  they  made. 

And  the  rose,  queen  of  flowers,  beloved  of 

the  poet, 
Blushed  crimson  as  morning  when  June 

stooped  to  kiss 
The  dew  from  her  petals,  and  breathed  out 

her  yearning 

And  passionate  soul  in  that  moment  of 
bliss. 


THE  HARVEST-MOON. 

SLOWLY  above  the  darkening  eastern  woods 

Rises  again  the  round  Harvest-Moon, 
O'erbrims  their  hollows  with  soft  light,  and 

floods 

With  silver  radiance  all  my  little  room ; 
Looks  down  on  meadows  sweet  with  new- 
mown  hay, 
And  yellow  wheat-fields  rich  in   golden 

sheaves — 

On  rustling  corn-fields  bending  to  the  sway 
Of  cool  west  winds,  her  softest  spell  she 

weaves. 
Hushed  lies  the  dreaming  world,  the  very 

air 
Seems  full  of  blessings,  and  this  holy 

calm, 

After  the  heat  and  turmoil  of  the  day, 
Falls  on  the  soul  a  healing  and  a  balm. 


HARRIET  M.  HOWE. 


HARRIET  MARY  HOWE  was  born  on  the  fourth  of  May,  1834,  at  Elba,  Genessee 
county,  New  York,  and  was  the  only  daughter  of  Isaac  N.  and  Nancy  Howe.  She 
began  to  write  verses  when  fifteen  years  old.  In  the  spring  of  1847,  her  parents 
moved  to  Sandusky  county,  Ohio.  The  death  of  her  father  four  years  after  cast  a 
shade  over  the  "  Buckeye  Home,"  of  which  she  sung  sweetly.  Miss  Howe  wrote 
many  poems  which  were  published  in  the  St.  Louis  papers,  and  in  the  Fremont  Dem 
ocratic  Messenger,  conducted  by  J.  D.  Botefur.  In  1856  a  severe  attack  of  inflamma 
tion  of  the  lungs  caused  a  gradual  decline  in  her  health,  until  the  twenty-fifth  of 
March,  1859,  when  she  died,  at  Green  Springs,  Ohio. 


MY  BUCKEYE  HOME. 

IN  the  great  valley  of  the  West, 

By  bounteous  heaven  so  richly  bless'd, 

Where  Ceres  waves  her  golden  crest, 

And  plenty  makes  her  throne, 
Not  far  from  blue  Sandusky's  side, 
Whose  waves  with  grateful  murmurs  glide, 
To  lose  themselves  in  Erie's  tide, 

There  lies  my  Buckeye  Home. 

When  summer  spreads  her  glowing  skies, 
I  seek  where  dewy  woods  arise, 
Unseen  by  aught  save  fairy  eyes, 
And  fanned  by  zephyr's  balmy  sighs, 

In  pensive  rapture  roam. 
Lulled  by  the  poet's  liquid  lay, 
I  dream  unnumbered  hours  away, 
While  romance  spreads  her  rnagic  sway 

Around  my  Buckeye  Home. 

O'er  Nature's  book  I  daily  pore, 
Her  deepest  mysteries  ponder  o'er — 
The  silent  wood,  the  lonely  shore, 
Yield  sweeter  wisdom,  richer  lore, 

Than  many  an  ancient  tome. 
I  read  Almighty  love  and  power, 
Alike  in  sunshine  or  in  shower, 
A  lesson  in  each  leaf  or  flower, 

Which  decks  my  Buckeye  Home. 


Warm    glows    our    hearth   each  wint'ry 

night, 

And  brighter  beams  affection's  light, 
Where  loved  and  loving  ones  unite, 
To  hallow  with  each  social  rite 

The  holy  shrine  of  home. 
Fond  hearts  and  faithful  there  remain, 
Unchilled  by  winter's  icy  chains, 
And  one  eternal  summer  reigns 

Within  my  Buckeye  Home. 

The  laugh  and  song  ring  blithe  and  gay, 
The  bells  peals  forth  their  silvery  lay, 
As  swiftly  in  our  bonny  sleigh, 
We  glide  beneath  the  moon's  pure  ray, 

And  part  the  snowy  foam. 
While  far  above,  with  sleepless  eye, 
Orion  guards  the  midnight  sky, 
And  leads  his  starry  galaxy 

Above  my  Buckeye  Home. 

I 

Thus  far  from  fashion's  mazy  tide, 
And  from  the  giddy  heights  of  pride, 
Down  life's  unruffled  stream  I  glide, 

Unnoticed  and  unknown. 
While  hovering  round  my  quiet  way, 
Contentment  gilds  each  fleeting  day, 
And  pleasure's  ever-genial  ray 

Illumes  my  Buckeye  Home. 


(663) 


ISA   AMEND   EBERHART. 


ISA  AMEND  EBERHART  was  born,  May  eighth,  1834,  in  Mercer  county,  Pennsyl 
vania.  In  a  note  to  a  friend,  who  requested  facts  for  a  biographic  notice,  he  said : 

My  father  is  a  farmer,  and  the  story  of  my  education  is  simply  the  same  one  worked  over  a  thou 
sand  times  by  the  ambitious  poor.  I  carried  my  algebra  and  Latin  grammar  with  me  at  the  plow, 
and  I  watched  them  more  closely  than  I  did  the  stumps.  I  pinned  the  French  verbs  on  the  handle 
of  my  shovel-plow,  and  learned  them  whilst  plowing  corn.  About  six  years  ago  my  old  life  had 
passed  away,  and  I  found  myself  in  a  land  of  darkness  and  sorrow.  It  was  then  Poesy  came  to 
me,  like  a  mother,  taking  me  in  her  arms  and  lifting  me  out  of  night. 

Mr.  Eberhart  is  a  schoolmaster.  His  present  residence  is  Chicago,  Illinois.  His 
poems  have  appeared  in  various  Chicago  papers,  but  chiefly  in  the  North-  Western 
Home  Journal. 


ONLY  ONE  LEFT. 

IN  the  holy  arms  of  Sabbath 

All  the  city  lies  asleep, 
And  from  out  their  twilight  curtains, 

One  by  one  the  young  stars  peep, 
While  the  sweep  of  angel  pinions 

Murmurs  music  low  and  deep. 

I  am  looking  from  my  window, 
Peace  and  beauty  fill  my  eye, 

But  I  see  a  tall  tree  near  me 
Lift  its  bare  arms  to  the  sky, 

And  I  turn  from  all  this  beauty, 
Sadly  turn  away  and  sigh. 

*A11  its  leaves,  but  one,  have  perished 
In  the  cold  and  wint'ry  air, 

And  that  lone  leaf  trembles,  clinging 
Near  its  heart,  as  in  despair, 

While  the  branches,  closing  round  it, 
Point  to  heaven  as  if  in  prayer. 

What  a  world  of  wild  emotions 

Through  my  spirit  surge  and  swell  ? 


Oh !  I  know  a  heart  whose  picture 
In  that  lone  tree  seems  to  dwell, 

And  the  scene  is  sadly  whispering 

Thoughts  that  language  could  not  tell. 

Yes,  that  heart's  young  bloom  hath  per 
ished, 

For  the  storms  of  death  have  blown 
From  its  side  the  loved  and  cherished 

Kindred  spirit  to  its  own  ; 
Still  one  hope — the  hope  of  heaven — 

Closely  clings,  though  all  alone. 


FRAGMENT. 

Go,  ask  the  smiling  moon  at  night, 

The  stars  that  sweetly  shine, 
The  merry  brook  or  happy  breeze, 

If  man  should  e'er  repine  ; 
The  moon,  the  stars,  the  breeze,  the  brook 

Will  laugh  the  thought  to  scorn, 
And  echo  back  these  truthful  words — 

Man  was  not  made  to  mourn. 
(664) 


JOHN  J.  PIATT. 


JOHN  JAMES  PIATT  was  born  on  the  first  day  of  March,  in  the  year  1835,  at  a 
village  now  called  Milton,  four  miles  from  Rising  Sun,  Indiana.  His  early  boyhood 
was  spent  on  a  farm,  but  his  parents,  John  Bear  and  Emily  Scott  Piatt,  having  re 
moved  to  Ohio,  in  the  vicinity  of  its  Capital,  John  J.  was  apprenticed  to  Charles  Scott, 
then  publisher  of  the  Ohio  State  Journal.  He  there  learned  the  printing  business, 
enjoying  irregular  opportunities  for  the  acquisition  of  "  a  little  Latin  and  less  Greek," 
at  the  Columbus  High  School  and  at  Kenyon  College.  He  has  been  known  as  a  poet 
about  eight  years,  but  not  widely  until  1858,  when  several  poems,  written  by  him  for 
the  Louisville  Journal,  were  warmly  commended  and  republished  by  many  influential 
papers.  In  1859  he  became  a  contributor  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  his  poem,  "The 
Morning  Street,"  was  ascribed  to  poets  who  deservedly  have  national  reputations. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1860,  Follett,  Foster  and  Company  published  a  neat  du 
odecimo  volume  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  pages,  entitled  "Poems  of  Two  Friends" 
— Mr.  Piatt  and  William  D.  Howells  acknowledged  the  friendship  and  the  poems  of 
the  volume.  It  was  noticed  with  flattering  encouragement  by  leading  journalists  not 
only  in  the  West  but  in  eastern  cities.  We  cannot  better  characterize  Mr.  Piatt's 
merits  as  a  poet  or  the  promise  of  the  volume  than  by  making  the  following  quotation 
from  a  notice  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  April,  1860 : 

The  volume  is  a  very  agreeable  one,  with  little  of  the  crudeness  so  generally  characteristic  of 
first  ventures, — not  more  than  enough  to  augur  richer  maturity  hereafter.  Dead-ripeness  in  a  first 
book  is  a  fatal  symptom,  sure  sign  that  the  writer  is  doomed  forever  to  that  pale  limbo  of  faultless- 
ness  from  which  there  is  no  escape  upward  or  downward.  We  can  scarce  find  it  in  our  hearts  to 
make  any  distinctions  in  so  happy  a  partnership  ;  but  while  we  see  something  more  than  promise  in 
both  writers,  we  have  a  feeling  that  Mr.  Piatt  shows  greater  originality  in  the  choice  of  subjects.  .  .  . 
Both  of  them  seem  to  us  to  have  escaped  remarkably  from  the  prevailing  conventionalisms  of  verse, 
and  to  write  meter  because  they  had  a  genuine  call  thereto.  We  are  pleased  with  a  thorough  West 
ern  flavor  in  some  of  the  poems.  We  welcome  cordially  a  volume  in  which  we  recognize  a  fresh 
and  authentic  power,  and  expect  confidently  of  the  writers  a  yet  higher  achievement  ere  long.  The 
poems  give  more  than  glimpses  of  a  faculty  not  so  common  that  the  world  can  afford  to  do  with 
out  it. 


THE  STRANGE  ORGANIST— A  PRELUDE. 

DEEP  in  the  strange  Cathedral  gloom, 
Where  incense  all  the  ages  rose, 

I  stand  alone.     The  mystic  bloom 
Of  saintful  silence  round  me  glows. 


High  Church  of   Song!      The  hallowed 

place 
Where  haunt  the  hymns  of  bards  of 

old! 

Above  the  organ  Shakspeare's  face 
I  dream — hear  Milton's  soul  outrolled. 


(  665  ) 


666 


JOHN    J.   PIATT. 


[1850-60. 


Deep  in  the  dim  Cathedral  hush, 
I  stand  alone.     The  organ's  keys 

I  touch  with  homeless  fingers.     Blush, 
Sad  soul ! — what  harmonies  are  these  ? 


THE  MORNING  STREET. 

I  WALK,  alone,  the  Morning  Street, 
Filled  with  the  silence  strange  and  sweet ; 
All  seems  as  lone,  as  still,  as  dead, 
As  if  unnumbered  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  be 
Without  a  breath — a  memory  ! 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me,  alone, 
Where  the  hot  day  like  flame  was  blown ; 
Where  the  wheels  roared  and  dust  was 

beat, 
The  dew  is  in  the  Morning  Street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  mighty  corridor 

While   the   noon   flames?    the    hurrying 

crowd 

Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud  ? 
The  myriad  faces?  hearts  that  beat 
No  more  in  the  deserted  street  ? 
Those  footsteps,  in  their  dream-land  maze 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days  ; 
Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
In  morning  suns  long  set  in  tears  ; 
Those  hearts — far  in  the  past  they  beat — 
Are  singing  in  their  Morning  Street. 

A  city  'gainst  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert,  far  from  time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sands  and  dew — 
Yet  still  a  marble  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan  ; 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Beating  the  marble  breast  of  Art — 
Were  not  more  lone  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  giant  silence  burst, 


?han  this  strange  quiet,  where  the  tide 
)f  life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 
langs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  Morning  Street. 

Aye,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
ours  through  this  charmed  solitude ; 

A.11  silent  now,  this  Memnon-stone 
Vill  murmur  to  the  rising  sun  ; 
[lie  busy  life  this  vein  will  beat — 
The  rush  of  wheels,  the  swarm  of  feet ; 
The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream, 
Jnseen,  within  the  morning  gleam  ; 

The  Life  will  move,  the  Death  be  plain ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train 

Together  in  the  crowd  will  meet, 

And  pass  within  the  Morning  Street. 


THE  NIGHT-TRAIN. 

A  TREMBLING  hand — a  lingering  word — 

the  burning 
Of  restless  passion  smouldering,  and  we 

part : 
Ah!    slowly  from  the  dark   the  world  is 

turning 

When   midnight  stars  are  in   a  heavy 
heart. 

The  streets  are  lighted,  and  the  myriad 

faces 
Steal  through  the  gas-light,  with  their 

home-led  feet, 
Passing  me,  homeless:  sweet  and  warm 

embraces 

Charm  many  a  threshold — smiles  and 
kisses  sweet. 

From  great  hotels  the  stranger  throng  is 

streaming — 

The  restless  wheels  in  many  a  street  are 
loud ; 


1850-60.]                                                JOHN    J.    PI  ATT.                                                          667 

Within   the  depot,  in  the  gas-light  gleam 

They  came  —  their  busy  empire  won  — 

ing? 

Before  the  white  man  known. 

A  glare    of   faces,  stands    the  waiting 

crowd. 

The  Indian  saw  the  moving  bees, 

Soon  will  the  web  of  streets  be  quiet,  ly 

From  flower  to  flower,  in  dream-like  breeze 
Blowing  their  pilgrim  way  ; 

ing 
In    dew  —  the    human   hive    no    more 

Or,  deep  in  honey  of  the  flower, 
Hanging  in  sunshine  hour  by  hour, 

a-swarm  ; 
And  soon  the   charmed  silence,  Slumber, 

Dream  through  the  dreaming  day. 

flying 
Into  the  myriad  heart,  will  nestle  warm. 

He  saw  the  future's  garment  gleam 
O'er  mounds  of  tribes  and  legend-stream  — 

O'er  the  sweet  waste  of  flowers  ; 

The    whistle    screams  :    the    wheels    are 
rumbling  slowly  ; 

He  saw  his  hunting  ground  —  the  past  ! 
Lit  with  the  domes  of  cities  vast  — 

The  path  before  us  glides  into  the  light  : 
Behind,  the  city  kisses  Silence  holy  ; 

Glory  of  spires  and  towers  ! 

The  panting  engine  leaps  into  the  night. 

Those  other  bees  !  He  felt  —  he  saw, 

With  sorrowing  eye,  in  dreamy  awe, 

I  seem  to  see  each  street  a  mystery  grow 

The  blossom  of  the  West 

ing? 
Bounded  by  dream-lands  —  Time-forgot 

Thrill  with  sunny-toiling  bees 
Of  busy  Freedom,  happy  Peace  — 

ten  air  : 

Wide  blessings  and  the  bless'd. 

Does   no    sweet   soul,   awaking,   feel   me 

going  ? 
Loves  no  sweet  heart  in  dreams  to  keep 

They  come  !    They  came  !     Lo  !  they  are 
here! 

me  there  ? 

The  Indian  heart-beat  every  where 

Starts  echoes  wild  no  more  ; 

The  leaves  have  fallen  from  his  trees 

Of  life  :  dead  leaves,  in  every  breeze, 

Rustle  for  evermore  ! 

THE  WESTERN  PIONEER.* 

INTO  the  prairies'  boundless  blossom, 

Into  the  wide  West's  sunburnt  bosom, 

The  earliest  emigrants  came  : 

The  flowers,  like  sunny  miracles,  grew 

MOONRISE. 

Before  them,  fragrant,  from  the  dew, 

Filling  the  grass  like  flame  ! 

'Tis  midnight,  and  the  city  lies 

With  dreaming  heart  and  closed  eyes  : 

From  some  old  land  of  song  and  life  — 

The  giant's  folded  hands  at  rest, 

Of  man,  in  manhood's  glowing  strife, 

Like  Prayer  asleep,  are  on  his  breast. 

Departing  all  alone, 

And  journeying  with  the  journeying  sun, 

From  window,  hushed,  I  see  alone 

The  tide-worn  streets  so  silent  grown  : 

*  The  bees  are  said  to  have  ever  swarmed  westward  be 
fore  the  steps  of  the  whites. 

The  dusty  footprints  of  the  day 
Are  blessed  with  dew  and  steal  away. 

668 


JOHN    J.   PIATT. 


[1850-60. 


0  scarce  a  pulse  of  sound  !     Afar 
Flashes,  upon  a  spire,  a  star, 
And  in  the  East  a  dusky  light : 
Vailed  the  ghost-moon  steals  through  the 
night ! 

Unvailing  slow,  her  face  of  blood 
Uplifting  in  the  solitude  ! 
The  city  sleeps :  above,  behold 
The  moonrise  kiss  a  cross  of  gold ! 

Golden  in  air  that  cross :  at  rest 
Below,  the  city's  sleeping  breast ; 
And  on  the  cross,  moon-brightened,  see, 
Christ,  dying,  smiles  down  lovingly ! 


POSTSCRIPT. 

I  SHALL  not  hear  from  her  again  : 

In  all  my  blushing  letters,  long 
I  stole  the  secret  from  my  pen, 

And  hid  it  in  unwritten  song. 
Her  letters,  sweet  as  roses  pressed, 

Bloom  from  my  dreaming  heart  to-day. 
Flushing  I  wrote,  in  sweet  unrest : 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 

Long  years  :  for  her  another's  name — 

Another's  lip — another's  arm — 
(Ah,  crawl  into  the  ashes,  flame  !) 

Another  heart — though  mine  was  warm. 
My  cricket,  hush  !  his  mirth  is  stilled  ; 

Dream-flames      among     dream-embers 

play ; 
Another  my  lost  heaven  has  filled  : 

My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 

Ah,  well — the  Postscript  steals  at  last 
Beneath  shy  letters,  buried— dead  : 


'  I  love  " — in  my  regret  are  cast 
Low  echoes,  whispering  words  unsaid. 

Sweet  flowers,  remember  her,  apart ; 
Write  your  sweet  postscript  here  to-day 

Upon  her  head-stone — in  my  heart ; 
My  rose  forgot  to  climb  for  May. 


TWO  KINGS. 

Two  Kings,  in  vanished  ages, 

Swayed  kingdoms  far  apart; 
One's  scepter  was  a  bloody  hand, 

And  one's  a  loving  heart. 

The  harvest  cradled  plenty, 

Where  reaped  that  bloody  hand  ; 

The  widows  wailed,  the  orphans  moaned — 
War  wedded  a  waste  land. 

The  harvest  cradled  plenty, 

That  loving  heart  controlled ; 
The  mother  sang,  the  children  played — 

Peace  bound  her  sheaves  of  gold. 

The  one  prepared  his  tombstone, 
The  people's  marbled  groans ; 

The  pyramid  above  forgot, 
Below,  the  crumbling  bones. 

Dust  in  the  vanished  ages, 

Dust  lies  that  bloody  hand ; 
That  heart  beats  in  the  people  still, 

And  blossoms  in  the  land. 

That  loving  King  is  reigning  ; 

He  made  no  man  a  slave  : 
In  the  people's  heart  they  laid  him  deep — 

His  laws  are  on  his  grave  ! 


ELVIRA   PARKER. 


ELVIRA  PARKER,  who  is  well  known  as  a  contributor  to  the  newspapers  and  mag 
azines  of  Cincinnati,  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  where  she  was  born,  December 
twenty-sixth,  1835.  Miss  Parker  was  educated  at  "The  Wesleyan  Female  College," 
Cincinnati.  She  now  resides,  with  her  mother,  in  the  village  of  Reading,  near  that 
city. 

Miss  Parker  writes  poetry  with  grace,  but  evidently  trusts  more  to  the  charm  of 
feeling  than  to  the  force  of  art. 


EOLINE. 

COME  balmy  gale, — or  zephyr  bland, 
That  fan  the  blossoms  of  our  land  ; 
Come  gently  kiss  the  placid  brow, 
Nor  break    the    slumber,  calm,  and 

mild, 

That  holds  in  mystic  thraldom  now 
Our  wild,  capricious,  fitful  child ; 
For  wayward  oft,  her  moods,  as  thine, 
Whom  we  call  strange,  sweet  Eoline. 

One  moment,  as  a  joyous  bird, 
Her  blissful  lay  of  mirth  is  heard ; 
As  silvery,  laughing  echoes  trip, 
In  rich,  delicious  cadence  gay, 
From  off  the  rosy,  budding  lip, 

Flowing  unchecked,  and  free  away, 
A  glad  enchantress,  and  divine, 
Seemeth  our  gleeful  Eoline. 

Then,  as  a  clouded  summer  sky, 
A  shadow  dims  her  beaming  eye ; 
A  pensive  sadness  checks  the  song, 

That  rose  in  sweet,  voluptuous  sound. 
A  wizard  spell  all  deep  and  strong, 
Her  every  thought  has  seeming  bound, 


Yet  knows  not  why  she  should  repine, 
Or  wherefore  weep — strange  Eoline. 

There's  magic  in  her  music  voice 
That  makes,  at  times,  the  heart  rejoice ; 
A  meaning  in  the  dark  orb's  light, 

Beneath  its  jetty  fringe,  half  hid ; 
A  dawning  of  some  new-born  might, 

When  blazing  from  the  upraised  lid, 
We  see  the  flame  of  mind  forth  shine, 
From  the  proud  soul  of  Eoline. 

Ye  scarce  would  know  her  path  of  years 
As  yet  had  led  'mid  sin  and  tears ; 
Or  that  her  truthful,  earnest  heart 
Had  felt  the  burden  of  despair, 
So  guileless  she,  and  free  of  art, 

So  trusting  and  so  child-like  fair, 
That  all  our  love  must  still  incline 
.n  homage  to  sweet  Eoline. 

,  like  a  wavelet  of  the  sea, 
A.  wanton  wind  upon  the  lea, 
A  severed  petal  of  the  glade, 

That  playfully  flieth  here  and  there — 
An  April  morn  of  sun  and  shade — • 

A  happy  song,  a  mournful  prayer, 
Mystic  she  seemeth  and  divine, 
Yhom  we  call  strange,  sweet  Eoline. 


(669  ) 


CORNELIA   W.    LAWS. 


CORNELIA  ELLICOTT  WILLIAMS  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  M.  C.  Williams  of  Col 
lege  Hill,  near  Cincinnati.  She  was  educated  at  the  Ohio  Female  College,  at  College 
Hill,  where,  in  addition  to  her  attainments  in  more  sedate  studies,  she  took  high  rank 
for  the  elegance  of  her  composition,  in  prose  and  verse,  and  for  artistic  skill  in  music. 
Her  soul  is  full  of  song,  and  her  poetry  is  the  offspring  of  the  melodies  of  heart  and 
voice. 

Miss  Williams  was  married,  in  1857,  at  Syracuse.  New  York,  to  Joseph  P.  Laws, 
a  merchant  of  Richmond,  Indiana,  where  she  now  resides.  Her  poems  have  been 
contributed  to  the  Cincinnati  Commercial,  the  St.  Louis  Democrat,  and  Syracuse 
Journal,  and  some  of  them  very  extensively  copied  by  the  Press.  She  first  published 
"The  Empty  Chair,"  in  1856;  the  next  year,  u  Six  Little  Feet  on  the  Fender,"  and 
"  Behind  the  Post." 

Of  the  "  Empty  Chair,"  as  it  first  appeared  in  the  Commercial,  George  W.  Cutter 
thus  wrote  to  that  paper :  u  If  my  poor  judgment  is  worth  any  thing  in  matters  of 
this  kind,  I  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  *  beautiful  exceedingly.'  I  kno*w  of  few 
poems  in  our  language,  that,  for  freshness  and  originality  of  thought,  justness  of  meta 
phor,  picturesque  arrangement,  pleasing  melody,  and  depth  of  pathos,  surpass  or  even 
approach  this  '  gem  of  purest  ray  serene,'  these  beautiful  buds  of  promise."  These 
commendations  apply  with  still  more  force  to  some  of  her  later  compositions. 

Mrs.  Laws  is  still  in  the  bloom  and  freshness  of  early  womanhood ;  and  these  effu 
sions  from  her  pen  may  be  happily  styled  "  the  beautiful  buds  of  promise"  that  pre 
cede  and  foretell  the  flowers  and  fruitage  of  a  brilliant  summer  and  golden  autumn 
of  life. 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR. 

ON  the  hearth,  the  embers  dying, 
Flush  the  darkness  as  they  fall, 

And  the  shadows  flitting,  flying, 
Play  like  waves  upon  the  wall. 

Hither,  thither  they  are  winging, 
Reeling  routes  around  the  room, 

O'er  the  silent  pictures  flinging 
Fitful  palls  of  sullen  gloom. 


On  the  pool  the  rain  is  wreathing 
Circlets,  tripping  here  and  there, 

Golden  gleams  oft  interweaving, 
Stolen  from  some  casement's  glare. 

Through  the  drifting  darkness  whirling, 
Madly  race  the  yellow  leaves, 

And  down  the  darkened  pane  are  purling 
Streamlets  from  the  dripping  eaves. 


The  parted  curtains  white  are  streaming, 
By  the  fagot's  light  more  fair, 


(670) 


1850-60.] 


CORNELIA    W.    LAWS. 


671 


Like  the  falling  snow-drifts  gleaming, 
O'er  a  lone  and  empty  chair. 

Where  the  church-bell  now  is  throbbing 
Blended  with  the  storm's  refrain, 

O'er  a  grave  like  mourners  sobbing, 
Falls  the  plashing  Autumn  rain. 

Wild  the  shriveled  leaves  are  sweeping, 
Down  the  walks  upon  the  wind, 

And  with  loving  nestle  creeping 
In  the  footprints  left  behind. 

When  the  groves  with  buds  were  teeming, 
Wept  a  maiden  silent  there, 

Where  the  curtains  white  are  streaming 
O'er  that  lone  and  empty  chair. 

At  her  side  pale  blossoms  drumming 
Soft  against  the  window-pane, 

Seem'd  to  say,  "  He  is  not  coming — 
Cease, oh!  cease, thou  weep'st  in  vain." 

Alas !  with  weeping,  watching,  waiting, 
From  her  cheek  the  roses  fled ; 

But  with  fondness  un abating, 
Sunk  she  to  her  dreamless  bed. 

At  that  casement  still  is  basking 
Evermore,  that  empty  chair, 

And  its  silence  seems  an  asking 
For  that  pale  form,  passing  fair. 


SIX  LITTLE  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER. 

IN  my  heart  there  liveth  a  picture, 

Of  a  kitchen  rude  and  old, 
Where  the  firelight  tripped  o'er  the  rafters, 

And  reddened  the  roof's  brown  mould ; 
Gilding  the  steam  from  the  kettle 

That  hummed  on  the  foot-worn  hearth, 
Throughout  all  the  livelong  evening 

Its  measure  of  drowsy  inirth. 


Because  of  the  three  light  shadows 

That  frescoed  that  rude  old  room — 
Because  of  the  voices  echoed, 

Up  'mid  the  rafters'  gloom — 
Because  of  the  feet  on  the  fender, 

Six  restless,  white  little  feet — 
The  thoughts  of  that  dear  old  kitchen 

Are  to  me  so  fresh  and  sweet. 

When  the  first  dash  on  the  window 

Told  of  the  coming  rain, 
Oh  !  where  are  the  fair  young  faces, 

That  crowded  against  the  pane  ? 
While  bits  of  firelight  stealing 

Their  dimpled  cheeks  between, 
Went  struggling  out  in  the  darkness, 

In  shreds  of  silver  sheen. 

Two  of  the  feet  grew  weary, 

One  dreary,  dismal  day, 
And  we  tied  them  with  snow-white  ribbons, 

Leaving  him  there  by  the  way. 
There  was  fresh  clay  on  the  fender 

That  weary,  wint'ry  night, 
For  the  four  little  feet  had  tracked  it 

From  his  grave  on  the  bright  hill's  height. 

Oh  !  why,  on  this  darksome  evening, 

This  evening  of  rain  and  sleet, 
Rest  my  feet  all  alone  on  the  hearthstone  ? 

Oh  !  where  are  those  other  feet  ? 
Are  they  treading  the  pathway  of  virtue 

That  will  bring  us  together  above  ? 
Or  have  they  made  steps  that  will  dampen 

A  sister's  tireless  love  ? 


BEHIND  THE  POST. 

THE  tint  of  dying  day  reposes 
Lightly  on  the  blushing  roses ; 
Foolish  Nannie!  thus  to  wait, 
Sighing  at  the  garden  gate  ; 
"  Never  fear !  never  fear ! " 
Some  one  said  it,  very  near. 


672 


CORNELIA    W.    LAWS. 


[1850-60. 


Could  it  be  the  wind  a-sighing, 
Through  the  grass,  in  riplets  hieing, 
Further  on,  further  on, 
Chasing,  racing,  down  the  lawn ! 
Much  I  fear,  much  I  fear 
No  one  said  it,  very  near. 

Fireflies  in  the  ravine  glimmer, 
And  the  maples  growing  dimmer, 
Quiet  from  the  hill-side  fade ; 
What  if  some  one  false  has  played  ? 
"  Never  fear !  never  fear ! " 
I'm  sure  I  heard  it,  very  near. 

I  shall  surely  soon  be  weeping — 
E'en  the  roses,  seem  as  peeping, 
Curious  through  the  garden  gate, 
Softly  saying,  "  He  is  late." 
And  they  seem  to  start  with  fear, 
As  they  blow  the  gate-post  near. 

Now  with  bent  heads  low  they  whisper, 
Telling  how  "  he  came  and  kissed  her, 
Later  yet,  one  time  before, 
Sweetly  kissed  her  o'er  and  o'er ; " 
"  See  that  shadow !  now  I  fear, 
Some  one  must  be  very  near — 

Else  the  moon  in  sport  hath  made  it, 
And  slyly  on  the  grass  hath  laid  it " — 
Ah  !  but  from  behind  the  post, 
Some  one  glideth,  light  as  ghost, 
Saying,  "  Now  for  every  tear, 
Thou  art  doubly,  doubly  dear/' 

If  the  one  you  loved  had  said  it, 
If  in  dark  eyes  you  had  read  it, 
Would  you  not  forget  the  pain 
He  had  caused  you,  in  your  gain  ? 
Notwithstanding  all  your  fears, 
Notwithstanding  all  your  tears  ? 


THE  SHADOW. 

THE  moonlight  stole  softly  o'er  the  quiet 

hill-tops, 

Tracking  all  with  its  footprints  of  gold ; 
The  forest,  the  fountain,  the  meadow,  the 

copse, 
Had  borrowed  a  beauty  untold. 

In  the  tress  of  the  willow,  the  zephyrs  ca 
ressed, 
With  their  songs  making   tuneful  the 

night, 
And  the  silken-leaved  lily,  with  the  dew 

on  its  breast, 
From  its  covert  blinked  out  at  the  light. 

Blithe  chirpings  rose  up  from  the  glad  in 
sect  throng, 
And    the    whippowill  grieved    in    the 

glen; 
0 !  why  was  my  heart  so  touched  by  its 

song? 
O !  why  did  the  tears  gather  then  ? 

Long,  long,  had  I  listened  a  footfall  to 

hear, 

Down  the  slope  where  the  violets  peep, 
But  moments  seemed  lengthened  to  hours 

so  drear, 
And  I  sunk  on  the  casement  to  weep. 

But   tears    trickled  o'er  a  cheek  flushed 

with  hope, 
And    were    all    gathered    home    in   a 

smile, 
For  a  footstep  fell  lightly  on  the  meadow's 

green  slope, 
And  a  shadow  fell  over  the  stile. 


CORA  MITCHELL  DOWNS. 


CORA  MITCHELL  DOWNS  is  a  native  of  Shawangunk,  New  York,  and  is  now  residing 
at  Wyandotte,  Kansas.  She  was  educated  at  Poughkeepsie,  New  York,  and  while 
there,  at  school,  some  of  her  fugitive  pieces  attracted  considerable  attention  by  their 
pathos  and  tenderness.  She  afterward  removed  to  Fremont,  Ohio,  and  wrote  over 
the  signature  of  CORA,  for  the  Sandusky  Register  and  several  literary  journals.  She 
was  married,  at  Fremont,  January  first,  1857.  Since  her  marriage  her  pen  has  been 
quiet ;  the  wife's  and  mother's  duties  taking  precedence  of  literary  tastes  and  occu 
pations. 


THE  OLD  ELM  TREE. 

I  HAVE  many  blessed  memories 

Of  rock,  and  hill,  and  stream, 
Where  the  sunshine  used  to  linger, 

Like  a  fair  and  pleasant  dream  ! 
Where  the  moonlight  came  with  silver 
steps, 

O'er  mossy  bank  and  lea, 
But  the  dearest  of  all  memories, 

Is  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 

I  lingered  there  in  childish  hours, 

To  watch  the  ripples  play — 
Beneath  its  feathery  branches  sat, 

And  idled  many  a  day  ! 
And  there,  again,  in  later  years 

The  sunshine  of  my  glee 
Was  lost  amid  a  mist  of  tears, 

'Neath  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 

And  there  are  none  to  love  me  now, 

As  in  the  days  of  yore ; 
My  mother  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep, 

And  loves  and  smiles  no  more ! 
And  strangers  claim  the  pleasant  home 

Where  she  was  wont  to  be — 
They  even  call  the  ground  their  own, 

'Round  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 
(6 

43 


There  the  moonlight  falls  as  softly 

And  silently  as  then  ; 
There  the  branches  droop  as  lowly 

And  silently  as  then  ! 
Oh,  will  no  heart  be  sadder 

With  memories  of  me, 
When  ling'ring  'neath  thy  shadow, 

My  Old  Elm  Tree? 

There  are  those  who  may  remember 

That  I  loved  the  quiet  shore, 
There     are     those    who     may    regret 
me, 

That  I  come  not — evermore — 
When  the  autumn  winds  are  sighing, 

And  the  joys  of  summer  flee, 
That    I    come     not — with     the     twi 
lights, 

To  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 

They  cannot  rest  beside  it, 

Nor  feel  my  presence  there ; 
For  my  spirit  luvathrs  a  vesper 

Upon  the  silent  air. 
A  breath  of  poetry  ami  flowers, 

A  song  of  bird  and  bee, 
Is  mingled  with  enchanted  hours, 

And  the  Old  Elm  Tree ! 


CORA    MITCHELL    DOWNS. 


[1850- GO. 


O  !  the  gentle,  gentle  memories 

Of  earlier,  happier  years  ! 
How  my  heart  goes  out  to  meet  them, 

Beyond  the  mist  of  tears  ! 
And  down  upon  the  mossy  banks 

I  sit  again,  and  see 
How  the  moonlight  and  the  ripples  meet 

By  the  Old  Elm  Tree! 


THE  SPIRIT'S  CALL. 

WHY   thrill   like   harp-chords    'neath  the 

stormy  sweep 
Of  some  grand  master's  hand,  oh,  soul  of 

mine? 
Why  rouse  thee  from  thy  careless  dreams 

and  sleep, 
And  shake  thy  fettered  wings  with  strength 

divine? 

What  burning  words  from  human  lips  hath 

woke 

Thy  charmed  slumbers  in  a  single  hour  ? 
What  tones  of  high   command  could  thus 

invoke 
The  palsied  pulse  of  years  to  deeds  of 

power  ? 

Thou  know'st   thy  destiny — thy   hope   is 

strong ; 

So  where  the  eternal  mountain-cliffs  arise, 
Leave  thy  fair  dreams  in  burning  words  of 

song, 
Thy  memory  lettered  in  immortal  dyes. 

Not  here,  my  spirit!  fold  thine  eagle 
wings, 

When  gath'ring  clouds  of  coming  fears  in 
form ; 

Thine  eyrie  seek  'mid  loftier,  nobler 
things, 

Light  gleams  beyond — and  God  is  in  the 
storm ! 


On  a  high  purpose   stand,  and  from  that 

height 

Gaze  out  upon  the  future  far  and  sure ; 
So  shall   thy  strength    renew  for   nobler 

flight, 
And  thy  calm  faith  like  pillar'd  rocks 

endure. 

Though  far  beneath  lie  gentle  love  and 

trust, 
And  all  the  golden  dreams  of  earlier 

days — 
Though  dearer  hopes  are  bleeding  in  the 

dust, 
Thou  wilt  not  turn  aside  thy  steadfast 

gaze. 

Perchance  an  arrow  from  a  bow  unseen, 
May  strike  thy  soaring  wing  at  dawn  of 

day; 
And  the  Pale  Angel  come  with  brow 

serene 
To  take  thy  meed,  thy  glorious  gift  away. 

What  then?  the  swan  its  death-song  sweet 
est  sings, 

Pouring  its  thrilling  notes  on  twilight  air ; 

So  thou,  my  spirit!  fold  thy  drooping 
wings, 

And  breathe  thy  life  out  in  wild  requiem 
there ! 

Thy  pinions   bleed   and  weary  with   the 

strife, 

Beating  against  their  iron  links  of  care ; 
While  golden  hills  loom  up  in  fairer  life, 
And  in  the  distance  mock  thy  chill 

despair. 

Chained   to   the   rocks  of  petty  ills,    art 

thou! 
Beneath  the  Lethean  river  ebbs  and 

flows, 
Promethean  patience  on  thy  stainless 

brow, 
And  thine — an  immortality  of  woes ! 


SAMUEL  Y.  MORRIS. 


SAMUEL  V.  MORRIS,  who  wishes  to  be  recorded  as  a  Hoosier  "  to  the  manner 
born,"  was  born  at  Indianapolis,  about  the  year  1835.  He  is  yet  a  resident  of  that 
city,  and  is  a  lawyer  by  profession.  He  has  contributed  to  the  Knickerbocker  maga 
zine,  to  the  Indiana  State  Journal,  and  other  "  Hoosier  "  papers. 


E  TRIBUS  UNUM. 

UPON  the  headland  Now, 
We  stand  and  gaze  upon  the  troubled  sea 
That  lashes  round  its  base.     The  heavy 

haze 

Of  dim  forgetfulness  hangs  like  a  cloud 
About  us,  and  with  eager  ken  we  strive 
To  pierce  its  misty  depths.  But  all 


in 


Still,  ever  and  anon,  a  wave  of  thought 
Comes  surging  in  from  out  the  gloom,  and 

oft 

In  this  torn  fragment  of  the  ocean  Past, 
We  recognize  the  joyous  wave  that  bore 
Us  'long  the  summer  sea  of  life,  when  Then 
Was  Now.     But  fast  it  hurries  on  far  in 
The  gloom  of  the  To  Be,  and  yet  again 
'Twill  meet  us,  when  To  Be  is  Now. 
And  thus  To  Be,  and  Is,  and  Was  are  one 
In  their  relations  to  our  lives.     The  soul 
Is  the  grand  reservoir  wherein  the  Past 
Empties  its  springs.     And  our  future  life 
Complete  or  faulty,  in  its  outward  show 
Is  but  our  present  inner  life  exposed. 
The  Past  we  may  deplore,  and  ought,  if 

lost. 

But  if  ''tis  past  and  living,  be  content ; 
For  it,  though  past,  may  in  its  offspring 


live. 


What  joys !  what  sorrows !  and  what  gilded 

dreams, 

Like  ivy  'round  the  fallen  oak,  still  cling 
With    living   tendrils    to    the  cold,  dead 

forms 

Of   by-gone  years!      The  soul   with   in- 
turned  eye 

Full  gazing  in  itself,  oft  sees  the  Past 
Reflected  there,  and  dreams  itself  away 


To 


other  years, 
Past, 


and  'tis  not  well.     The 


All  vital  in  the  soul  in  its  effects, 

Is  a  great  prompter  of  eternal  thoughts  ; 

But  when  the  soul  lives  in  the  Past,  oh, 

then 
The  Future  will  be  marred,  and  all  the 

thoughts 

Will  smell  of  other  years,  unless  they  pass 
Through  the  refining  fire  that  burns  and 

glows 
Within  the  furnace  Now.     Then  let  the 

Past 

Live  in  the  soul,  the  soul  not  in  the  Past ! 
And  from  the  Past  and  Present,  fashion 

well 

The  Future,  so  that  when  the  Was  and  Is 
And  the  To  Come  in  Time  are  gone,  the 

soul 
May  fashion  out  of  Time  a  Future,  fair 


And  comely,  for  Eternity. 

(  675  ) 


LUELLA   CLARK. 


LUELLA  CLARK,  one  of  the  daughters  of  Illinois,  who  contributes  to  the  Ladies' 
Repository  in  Cincinnati,  gives  promise  of  decided  excellence  in  metrical  composition. 
She  is  a  teacher  in  the  North- Western  Female  College,  at  Evanston,  a  pleasant 
village  on  Lake  Michigan,  a  few  miles  from  Chicago. 


I  STOOD  BENEATH  THY  BOUGHS. 

I  STOOD  beneath  thy  boughs,  0  tree ! 

With  the  sunshine  all  above, 
While  a  bird  within  thy  sheltering  leaves 

Sang  all  day  to  his  love, 
And  faintly  fell,  at  intervals, 

The  cooing  of  a  dove. 

And  I  thought  beneath  thy  boughs,  0  tree ! 

How  like  is  love  to  a  bird ; 
And  life  a  constant  summer,  where 

Its  music  shall  be  heard ; 
Alas !  I  thought,  when  winter  came, 

"  How  like  is  love  to  a  bird ! " 

I  look  through  the  naked  boughs  afar, 

To  the  calm  and  blessed  sky, 
And  lo !  a  clear,  unwavering  star 

Is  set,  serene  on  high ; 
And  I  think  how  like  God's  love  that  star 

So  fair;  its  light  so  nigh. 

Through  summer's  glow,  through  winter's 

gloom ; 

Through  change,  and  chill,  and  pain  ; 
Through  stormiest  hours  of  struggling  life, 

God's  love  doth  still  remain ; 
0  Father,  let,  henceforth,  that  love 
Within  this  bosom  reign  ! 

(  676 


UP  THE  HILL  A-BERRYING. 

ON  a  sunny  summer  morning, 

Early  as  the  dew  was  dry, 
Up  the  hill  I  went  a-berrying. 

Need  I  tell  you,  tell  you  why  ? 
Farmer  Davis  had  a  daughter, 

And  it  happened  that  I  knew, 
On  such  sunny  mornings,  Jenny 

Up  the  hill  went  berrying  too. 

Lonely  work  is  picking  berries ; 

So  I  joined  her  on  the  hill. 
"  Jenny,  dear,"  said  I,  "  your  basket's 

Quite  too  large  for  one  to  fill." 
So  we  staid — we  two — to  fill  it, 

Jenny  talking — I  was  still — 
Leading  where  the  way  was  steepest, 

Picking  berries  up  the  hill. 

"This  is  up-hill  work,"  said  Jenny: 

"  So  is  life,"  said  I ;  "  shall  we 
Climb  it  each  alone,  or,  Jenny, 

Will     you    come    and     climb    with 

me?" 
Redder  than  the  blushing  berries 

Jenny's  cheek  a  moment  grew ; 
While,  without  delay,  she  answered, 

"  I  will  come  and  climb  with  you." 


WILLIAM  S.  PETERSON. 


WILLIAM  S.  PETERSON,  a  member  of  the  Iowa  Annual  Conference  of  the  Meth 
odist  Episcopal  Church,  was  born  in  Dearborn  county,  Indiana,  November  twenty- 
second,  1836.  He  has  written  for  the  Ladies'  Repository  and  other  periodicals  pub 
lished  under  the  auspices  of  the  church  to  which  he  belongs.  Mr.  Peterson  is  at 
present  stationed  at  Winterset,  Iowa. 


THE  FOREST  SPRING. 

IN  the  joyous  reign  of  summer, 
When  the  southern  breezes  blow, 

O'er  the  wood-lands  and  the  meadows 
Phoebus  spreads  his  fiery  glow, 

And  the  blue-birds  in  the  orchard 
Warble  music  soft  and  low. 

To  the  greenwood  grove  I  hasten, 
And  with  lightsome  heart  I  sing : 

Give  to  me  the  sparkling  water 
That  is  bubbling  from  the  spring ; 

Give  me  water,  crystal  water, 
For  it  leaves  behind  no  sting ! 

O'er  me  wave  the  leafy  branches, 
In  the  softly  sighing  breeze, 

Which  is  playing,  like  a  lover, 
With  the  tresses  of  the  trees ; 

And  around  me,  in  the  clover, 
Hum  the  honey -hunting  bees. 

Mother  Earth  is  full  of  beauty, 
In  her  summer  glories  dressed; 

Here,  upon  her  lap  reclining, 
Like  an  infant,  will  I  rest, 

And  enjoy  the  healthful  current 
That  is  flowing  from  her  breast. 

As  I  quaff  its  brimming  sweetness 
With  my  fever-heated  lips, 

I  would  not  exchange  one  crystal 
Drop  that  off  the  beaker  drips, 

For  the  brightest  liquid  riches 
That  the  bacchanalian  sips. 


(677) 


Very  bright  and  pleasant  pictures 

Has  my  fancy  often  drawn 
Of  the  wild  deer  in  the  forest, 

Resting  here  beside  her  fawn, 
Drinking  from  the  limpid  streamlet, 

In  the  years  now  long  agone. 

Here  the  laughing  Indian  maiden 
Has  her  glowing  lips  immersed, 

And  the  haughty  forest  hunter 

Often  here  has  quenched  his  thirst, 

Ere  the  damning  "fire-water" 
Had  the  red  man's  nature  cursed. 

But  old  Time  has  changed  the  scenery ; 

Earth  is  of  her  forests  shorn, 
And  the  Indian  wanders  westward, 

Spirit-broken  and  forlorn, 
For  his  fathers'  lands  are  waving 

With  the  white  man's  golden  corn. 

But  the  spring  is  ever  flowing, 

Through  the  change  of  every  year, 

Just  as  when  the  Indian  maiden 
Quaffed  its  waters  pure  and  clear, 

Just  as  when  across  its  bosom 
Fell  the  shadow  of  the  deer. 

On  the  mossy  margin  kneeling, 
I  my  simple  numbers  sing — 

The  glad  heart's  spontaneous  tribute 
In  a  song  of  rapture  bring — 

Drinking,  in  this  crystal  water, 

"Health  to  all  who  love  the  spring!" 


WILLIAM   D.   HOWELLS. 


WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS  was  born  at  Martinsville,  Belmont  county,  Ohio,  in  the  year 
1837.  His  father  being  a  printer  and  publisher,  he  learned  the  printing  business  in 
the  paternal  office  at  Hamilton,  Butler  county,  whither  his  parents  moved  in  1840. 
Mr.  Howells  has  been  recognized  as  a  writer  about  six  years.  He  has  been  editorially 
connected  with  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  and  with  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  and  has  con 
tributed  poems  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly  magazine,  and  to  the  Saturday  Press,  New 
York,  and  is  now  a  regular  correspondent  of  the  Ohio  Farmer.  Some  of  his  prose 
sketches  are  quite  equal  in  grace  of  conception  and  individuality  of  treatment  to  any 
of  his  poems.  His  characteristics  as  a  poet  are  so  well  described  in  a  notice  of  the 
volume  previously  mentioned  in  these  pages — "Poems  of  Two  Friends" — in  the  Sat 
urday  Press,  that  we  quote  it : 

Mr.  Howells  is  a  man  of  genius.  We  do  him  justice ;  we  do  not  pay  him  a  compliment.  His 
genius  is  not,  indeed,  of  the  highest  order  ;  but  it  is  genius,  nevertheless.  A  striking  indication  of 
genius  in  this  poet,  is  the  intense  compression  of  his  style.  In  his  better  poems  there  is  no  laborious 
detail— nothing  of  the  agony  of  inefficient  art.  Knowing  that  the  best  clothing  for  a  beautiful 
thought  is  nudity,  he  has  ordained  his  thought  to  be  more  than  its  expression.  This  is  the  imperial 
attitude  of  genius.  His  pictures  are  drawn  with  few  strokes.  He  says  all  in  few  words— vivid, 
direct.  Along  the  chain  of  his  thought  play  keen  lightning-jets  of  poetic  passion,  which  illumine 
the  dark  places  of  the  human  heart,  as  lightning  illumines  the  midnight  sky. 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 


As  one  whom  seaward  winds  beat  from  the 

shore, 

Sees  all  the  land  go  from  him  out  of  sight, 
And  waits  with  doubtful  heart  the  stoop 
ing  night, 

In  some  frail  shallop  without  sail  or  oar, 
Drifting  away ! 

I  ride  forlorn  upon  the  sea  of  life, 

Far  out  and  farther  into  unknown  deeps, 
Down  the  dark  gulfs  and  up  the  dizzy 
steeps, 

Whirled  in  the  tumult  of  the  ocean  strife, 


Drifting  away ! 


Like  faint,  faint  lights,  I  see  my  old  be 
liefs 
Fade  from  me  one  by  one,  and  shine  no 

more ; 
Old  loves,  old  hopes  lie  dead  upon  the 

shore, 

Wept   all  about  by  ghosts   of   childhood 
griefs, 

Drifting  away ! 

O  never  more  the  happy  land  shall  glow 
With  the  fair  light  of  morning  on  mine 

eyes; 
Upon  its  loftiest  peak  the  sunset  dies, 

And  night  is  in  the  peaceful  vales  below, 


Drifting  away  ! 


(678) 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    D .    H  0  W  E  L  L  S . 


679 


I  rise  and  stretch  my  longing  arms  in  vain, 
And  fold  in  void  embraces  on  my  breast 
The  nothing  clasp'd,  and  with  dim  fears 

oppress'd, 

Cry  to  the  shores  I  shall  not  see  again, 
Drifting  away  ! 


THE  MOVERS. 

PARTING  was  over  at  last,  and  all  the  good 
byes  had  been  spoken. 

Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white-tented  wag 
on  moved  slowly, 

Bearing  the  mother  and  children,  while  on 
ward  before  them  the  father 

Trudged  with  his  gun  on  his  arm,  and  the 
faithful  house-dog  beside  him, 

Grave  and  sedate,  as  if  knowing  the  sor 
rowful  thoughts  of  his  master. 

April  was  in  her  prime,  and  the  day  in  its 

dewy  awaking ; 
Like  a  great  flower,  afar  on  the  crest  of 

the  eastern  wood-land, 
Goldenly  bloomed  the  sun,  and  over  the 

beautiful  valley, 
Dim  with  its  dew  and  its  shadow,  and  bright 

with  its  dream  of  a  river, 
Looked  to  the  western  hills,  and  shone  on 

the  humble  procession, 
Paining  with  splendor  the  children's  eyes, 

and  the  heart  of  the  mother. 

Beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  song  filled  the 

air  like  a  palpable  presence. 
Sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  dewy  leaves 

and  the  flowers  in  the  wild-wood, 
Fair  the  long  reaches  of  sun  and  shade  in 

the  aisles  of  the  forest. 
Glad  of  the  spring,  and  of  love,  and  of 

morning,  the  wild  birds  were  singing  ; 


Jays  to  each  other  called  harshly,  then 
mellowly  fluted  together; 

Sang  the  oriole  songs  as  golden  and  gay 
as  his  plumage ; 

Pensively  piped  the  querulous  quails  their 
greetings  unfrequent, 

While,  on  the  meadow-elm,  the  meadow- 
lark  gushed  forth  in  music, 

Rapt,  exultant  and  shaken,  with  the  great 
joy  of  his  singing ; 

Over  the  river,  loud-chattering,  aloft  in  the 
air,  the  king-fisher, 

Hung,  ere  he  dropped,  like  a  bolt  in  the 
water  beneath  him ; 

Gossiping,  out  of  the  bank,  flew  myriad 
twittering  swallows ; 

And  in  the  boughs  of  the  sycamore  quar 
reled  and  clamored  the  blackbirds. 

Never  for  these  things  a  moment  halted 
the  movers,  but  onward, 

Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white  tented  wag 
on  moved  slowly, 

Till,  on  the  summit,  that  overlooked  all  the 
beautiful  valley, 

Trembling  and  spent,  the  horses  came  to  a 
standstill  unbidden ; 

Then  from  the  wagon  the  mother  in  silence 
got  down  with  her  children, 

Came,  and  stood  by  the  father,  and  rested 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Long  together  they  gazed  on  the  beautiful 
valley  before  them ; 

Looked  on  the  well-known  fields  that 
stretched  away  to  the  wood-lands, 

Where,  in  the  dark  lines  of  green,  showed 
the  milk-white  crest  of  the  dogwood, 

Snow  of  wild  plurns  in  bloom,  and  crim 
son  tints  of  the  red-bud ; 

Looked  on  the  pasture-fields  where  the  cat 
tle  were  lazily  grazing — 

Softly,  and  sweet,  and  thin,  came  the  faint, 
far  notes  of  the  cow-bells ; 

Looked  on  the  oft-trodden  lanes,  with  their 
elder  and  blackberry  borders, 


680 


WILLIAM    D.    HOWELLS 


[1850-60. 


Looked  on  the  orchard,  a  bloomy  sea,  with 

its  billows  of  blossoms. 
Fair  was  the  scene,  yet  suddenly  strange 

and  all  unfamiliar, 
Like  as  the  faces  of  friends,  when  the  word 

of  farewell  has  been  spoken. 
Long  together  they  gazed ;  then  at  last  on 

the  little  log-cabin — 
Home  for  so  many  years,  now  home  no 

longer  forever — 

Rested  their  tearless  eyes  in  the  silent  rap 
ture  of  anguish. 
Up  on  the  morning  air,  no  column  of  smoke 

from  the  chimney 
"Wavering,  silver  and  azure,  rose,  fading 

and  brightening  ever ; 
Shut  was  the  door  where  yesterday  morn 
ing  the  children  were  playing, 
Lit  with  a  gleam  of  the  sun  the  window 

stared  up  at  them  blindly, 
Cold  was  the   hearth-stone  now,  and   the 

place  was  forsaken  and  empty. 
Empty?  Ah  no!  but  haunted  by  thronging 

and  tenderest  fancies, 
Sad  recollections  of  all  that  had  ever  been, 

of  sorrow  or  gladness. 


Once  more  they  sat  in  the  glow  of  the  wide 

red  fire  in  the  winter. 
Once  more  they  sat  by  the  door  in  the  cool 

of  the  still  summer  evening, 
Once  more  the  mother  seemed  to  be  sing 
ing  her  babe  there  to  slumber, 
Once   more  the  father  beheld   her  weep 

o'er  the  child  that  was  dying, 
Once  more  the  place  was  peopled  by  all 

the  Past's  sorrow  and  gladness  ! 
Neither  might  speak  for  the  thoughts  that 

come  crowding  their  hearts  so, 
Till,  in  their  ignorant  sorrow  aloud,  the 

children  lamented ; 
Then  was  the  spell  of  silence  dissolved,  and 

the  father  and  mother 
Burst  into  tears,  and  embraced,  and  turned 

their  dim  eyes  to  the  westward. 


DEAD. 

SOMETHING  lies  in  the  room 

Over  against  my  own  ; 
The  windows  are  lit  with  a  ghastly  bloom 

Of  candles,  burning  alone — 
Untrimmed,  and  all  aflare 
In  the  ghastly  silence  there. 

People  go  by  the  door, 

Tiptoe,  holding  their  breath, 
And  hush  the  talk  that  they  held  before, 

Lest  they  should  waken  Death, 
That  is  awake  all  night 
There  in  the  candlelight ! 

The  cat  upon  the  stairs 

Watches  with  flamy  eye 
For  the  sleepy  one  who  shall  unawares 

Let  her  go  stealing  by; 
She  softly,  softly  purrs, 
And  claws  the  banisters. 

The  bird  from  out  its  dream 

Breaks  with  a  sudden  song, 
That  stabs  the  sense  like  a  sudden  scream ; 

The  hound  the  whole  night  long 
Howls  to  the  moonless  sky, 
So  far,  and  starry,  and  high. 


THE  POET'S  FRIENDS. 

THE  Robin  sings  in  the  elm ; 

The  cattle  stand  beneath, 
Sedate  and  grave,  with  great  brown  eyes, 

Arid  fragrant  meadow-breath. 

They  listen  to  the  flattered  bird, 
The  wise-looking,  stupid  things ! 

And  they  never  understand  a  word 
Of  all  the  Robin  sings. 


1850-60.] 


WILLIAM    D.    HO  WELLS. 


681 


THE  BOBOLINKS  ARE  SINGING. 

OUT  of  its  fragrant  heart  of  bloom — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
Out  of  its  fragrant  heart  of  bloom, 
The  apple-tree  whispers  to  the  room, 
"  Why  art  thou  but  a  nest  of  gloom, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing  ?  " 

The  two  wan  ghosts  of  the  chamber  there — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
The  two  wan  ghosts  of  the  chamber  there 
Cease  in  the  breath  of  the  honeyed  air, 
Sweep  from  the  room  and  leave  it  bare, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

Then  with  a  breath  so  chill  and  slow — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
Then  with  a  breath  so  chill  and  slow, 
That  freezes  the  blossoms  into  snow, 
The  haunted  room  makes  answer  low, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

I  know  that  in  the  meadow  land 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
I  know  that  in  the  meadow  land 
The  sorrowful,  slender  elm-trees  stand, 
And  the  brook  goes  by  on  the  other  hand, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  But  ever  I  see,  in  the  brawling  stream — 

•The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
But  ever  I  see  in  the  brawling  stream 
A  maiden  drowned  and  floating  dim, 
Under  the  water,  like  a  dream, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 

"  Buried,  she  lies  in  the  meadow-land ! 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
Buried,  she  lies  in  the  meadow-land, 
Under  the  sorrowful  elms  where  they  stand ; 
Wind,  blow  over  her  soft  and  bland, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing. 


"  O  blow,  but  stir  not  the  ghostly  thing — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing ! 
0  blow,  but  stir  not  the  ghostly  thing 
The  farmer  saw  so  heavily  swing 
From  the  elm,  one  merry  morn  of  Spring, 

While  the  bobolinks  were  singing. 

"  O  blow,  and  blow  away  the  bloom — 

The  bobolinks  are  singing  ! 
O  blow,  and  blow  away  the  bloom 
That  sickens  me  in  my  heart  of  gloom, 
That  frightens  my  ghosts  away  from  their 
room, 

While  the  bobolinks  are  singing ! " 


SUMMER  DEAD. 

ALL  the  long  August  afternoon, 

The  little  drowsy  stream 
Whispers  a  melancholy  tune, 
As  if  it  dreamed  of  June 

And  whispered  in  its  dream. 

The  thistles  show  beyond  the  brook 
Dust  on  their  down  and  bloom, 

And  out  of  many  a  weed-grown  nook 

The  aster-flowers  look 

With  eyes  of  tender  gloom. 

The  silent  orchard  aisles  are  sweet 
With  smell  of  ripening  fruit. 

Through  the  sear  grass,  in  shy  retreat, 

Flutter,  at  coming  feet, 

The  robins  strange  and  mute. 

There  is  no  wind  to  stir  the  leaves, 
The  harsh  leaves  overhead ; 

Only  the  querulous  cricket  grieves, 

And  shrilling  locust  weaves 
A  song  of  summer  dead. 


ALBERT   BARNITZ. 


ALBERT  BARNITZ  is  a  native  of  Bedford  county,  Pennsylvania,  where  he  was  born 
on  the  tenth  day  of  March,  1835,  but  claims  to  be  a  "  Buckeye,"  because  his  father 
moved  to,  and  settled  permanently  in,  Crawford  county,  Ohio,  when  he  was  an  infant. 
In  1857,  Mr.  Barnitz  published  a  volume  of  poems*  at  Cincinnati.  Mr.  Barnitz  is 
now  a  teacher  of  Elocution  and  student  at  Law  in  Cleveland. 


LOVE  ON  THE  UPLAND-LEA. 

IT  was  long  ago,  on  an  upland-level, — 

On  a  shadowy  upland-lawn, 
That  a  free,  proud  youth  did  delight  to 

revel 

With  a  sweet,  glad,  bright-eyed  fawn  ! 
Ah !  a  sweet,  glad,  bright-eyed  fawn  was 

she! 

A  pure,  and  a  lovely  being ! 
Who  roamed  with  the  lad  on  the  upland- 
lea, 
No  eyes,  but  their  own  eyes,  seeing ! 

The  grand  old  trees,  by  the  moss  made 

hoary, — 

By  moss  and  the  mountain-vine, — 
Whose   trunks  bore    names   far-famed  in 

story, 

Would  their  leafy  heads  incline  ! 
They  would  bend  their  verdant  branches 

low, 

And  breathless,  list  all  spoken 
By  the  youthful  pair  who  sat  below 
Exchanging  many  a  token  ! 

The  flowers  looked  up,  and  they  smiled  to 

see  us, — 
The  innocent  little  flowers  ! 


And  the  beautiful  birds  ne'er  thought  to 

flee  us, 

When  we  met  in  their  forest-bowers ! 
For  still  the  depths  of  this  shady  grove, 

Of  this  classic  realm,  resounded 
With   the  rapturous,  twittering   tones  of 

love, — 
A  love  that  there  abounded ! 

The  skies  they  were  always  blue  up  above 
us! — 

The  pure,  mild,  beautiful  skies  ! 
Whence  we  thought  the  bright  angels  as 
sembled  to  love  us, 

Looked  down  from  their  ethery  eyes ! 
And  a  mazy  landscape  stretched  away — 

A  dreamy,  dim  Ideal ! 
While  the  guardian  mountains'  mute  array, 

Shut  out  every  pleasure  unreal ! 

Ah!  sweet  was  the  place,  and  most  ro 
mantic, — 

The  place  on  the  upland-lea ! 
Where,   truant   afar  from   the   dame  pe 
dantic, 

Strolled  my  dark-eyed  maid  with  me ! 
Exchanging  many  a  pledge  of  love, 

And  many  a  glance  of  gladness ! 
Till  the  grand  old  oaks,  so  mute  above, 

Forgot  their  aged  sadness  ! 


*  Mystic  Delvings.     Cincinnati :  A.  Watson,  1857.    12mo,  pp.  288. 
(  682) 


1850-60.] 


ALBERT    BARNITZ. 


683 


Yes  !  the  grand  old  trees,  long,  sedate  and 

sober, — 

Sedate,  and  grave,  and  gloomy ! 
Forgetful,  at   length,  of  their   life's    Oc 
tober, 

Awhile  grew  gay  and  bloomy ! 
For    they   answered   low   to   the   wooing 

winds, 

In  a  soft  melodious  measure, 
Till,  'roused  by  the  mirth  of  their  whis 
pered  minds, 
Each  leaf  was  a  tremor  of  pleasure ! 

How   happy   were    we   on    this    upland- 
level  !— 

On  this  shadowy  upland-lawn  ! 
When  youthful  and  free  we  delighted  to 

revel — 

Myself  and  my  dark-eyed  fawn ! 
Ah !  many  and  many  a  lonesome  day, 
Have  I  passed,  since  my  gleeful  child 
hood  ! 

And  repent  now,  that  ever  I  came  away 
From  this  shadowy  upland-wildwood ! 


TO  IRENE. 

IN  the  cheerless  gloom  of  my  silent  room, 

I  am  sitting  alone,  Irene, 
"While  the  frozen  rain  on  my  window-pane 
With  a  sorrowful  cadence  comes  drifting, 

amain, 

As  the  merciless  winds  of  the  night  con 
strain, 
And  I'm  thinking  of  thee,  Irene ! 


Yes !  my  thoughts  take  flight,  through  the 

dismal  night, 

To  the  beautiful  home,  Irene, 
Where,  a  stranger-guest,  at  the  kind  be 
hest 

Of  her  whom  the  loveliest  charms  invest, 
I  was  welcomed  to  more  than  the  tongue 

confessed, 
Or  my  heart  dared  hope,  Irene. 

0,  the  kind  regard  which  the  fair  award, 

I  can  never  forget,  Irene  ! 
And   a   nameless   spell,   like   the   mystic 

knell 

Which  is  born  in  the  breast  of  the  ocean- 
shell, 
From  the  innermost  depths  of  my  heart 

will  swell 
With  the  memory  of  thee,  Irene ! 

And  beaming  afar,  like  a  rising  star, 

Is  the  Artist's  hope,  Irene  ! 
Through  the  lonely  night,  while  its  rays 

invite, 

I  will  struggle  along  to  that  distant  light, 
That  its  beautiful  splendor  may  shed  de 
light 
On  the  mate  of  my  choice,  Irene. 

And  may  I  not  deem  that  my  passionate 

dream 

Holds  the  essence  of  truth,  Irene  ? 
Then  the  rain  may  beat,  and  the  driveling 

sleet 

Come  drifting  along  in  a  frozen  sheet, 
But  my  heart  broods  a  melody  low  and 

sweet 
That  I'd  breathe  to  but  one,  Irene ! 


EMMA  ALICE  BROWNE. 


EMMA  ALICE  BROWNE  was  born  in  Cecil,  Maryland,  on  the  twenty-fifth  of 
December,  1840.  Her  father,  who  was  a  member  of  the  Maryland  Conference  of 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  died  when  she  was  five  years  of  age.  She  inherits 
her  poetical  gift  from  him.  Miss  Browne  is  a  blood  relative  (on  her  father's  side)  of 
Felicia  Hemans,  and  can  be  said  to  have  been  born  a  rhymester,  as  she  created  poems 
before  she  could  commit  them  to  paper,  dictating  them  to  a  playmate  who  had  the 
start  of  the  poetess  in  the  chirographic  art. 

Miss  Browne  has  contributed  to  various  periodicals  ;  among  others,  to  the  Louisville 
Journal,  Bloomington  (Illinois)  Pantograph,  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Philadelphia, 
New  York  Ledger,  Graham's  Magazine,  and  the  Methodist  Protestant,  published  at 
Baltimore.  The  gifted  editor  of  the  latter  publication,  Rev.  E.  Y.  Reece,  was  the 
first  editor  who  encouraged  her  talent  for  poetry.  Miss  Browne  is  not  afraid  of  out- 
of-door  exercise.  She  is  an  excellent  shot,  passionately  fond  of  rambles  in  the  deep 
woods  and  near  laughing  waters.  She  lives  an  impulsive,  robust  life,  and  is  remarked 
by  all  as  a  girl  "  with  no  nonsense  about  her,"  such  as  "  wasting  the  midnight  oil," 
and  fretting  her  round,  dimpled  face  into  wrinkles  on  account  of  some  "  congenial 
spirit." 

Her  early  home  was  on  the  Susquehanna  River,  at  the  head  of  tide-water,  a  wild 
and  romantic  region,  full  of  beauty  and  the  inspiration  of  poetry  and  daring.  Who 
shall  say  that  the  bold  features  of  massive  rocks,  towering  forests  and  rushing  waters, 
may  not  have  fostered  her  genius  and  had  much  to  do  in  the  creation  of  her  best  pro 
ductions  ? 

Miss  Browne  has  for  some  time  resided  at  Bloomington,  Illinois,  and  is  about 
taking  up  her  abode  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  Her  poetry  is  simple  and  unaffected,  as 
the  specimens  given  will  show. 


I  stand  alone,  with  the  wind  and  rain, 

ALUrsHj. 


THERE  is  a  pound  in  all  the  land 
Of  the  wind  and  the  falling  rain, 

And  a  wild  sea  breaking  on  dead  white  sand 
With  a  desolate  cry  of  pain, 

As  if  its  mighty  and  terrible  heart 


Were  heaved  with  a  human  pain  ! 


As  many  a  poet  hath  stood, 
Soul-lit  with  the  beautiful  inner-light, 

And  a  sense  of  a  higher  good, 
But  feeling,  because  of  the  world,  as  if 

My  life  were  written  in  blood ; 
And  my  soul  keeps  sobbing  a  sorrowful  song, 


Like  a  brook  in  an  autumn  wood. 


(684) 


1850-60.] 


EMMA    A.    BROWNE. 


685 


Blow  wind !  blow  wind !  fall,  desolate  rain, 

And  cry,  oh !  sorrowful  sea, 
To  the  dumb,  dead  sand  thy  merciless  pain, 

For  such  has  my  heart  for  me ! 
Pitiless !  pitiless !  homeless,  and  pitiless  ! 

Such  is  the  world  to  me ! 


THE  CONQUERORS. 

WHO  are  kings,  and  who  are  heroes  ? 

Who  are  victors  till  the  last? 
They  who  with  unfaltering  courage, 

Quell  the  lions  of  the  past. 

They  who  go  from  town  and  village, 
From  the  smithy  and  the  farm, 

Nobler  for  the  sign  of  labor, 

Branded  on  each  stalwart  arm ; — 

They  who  go  from  mart  and  city, 
From  the  rush  and  roar  of  trade, 

Go  to  grapple  with  the  future, 

Strong  of  soul,  and  undismay'd; — 

They  who  from  the  toiling  present, 
Look  not  back  through  mist  of  tears, 

But  across  the  coming  harvest 
Of  the  golden-fruited  years  ; — 

They  who  nurse  a  noble  scorning, 
E'en  in  thought  to  be  a  slave — 

They  who  hailed  the  glorious  morning, 
Of  the  arts  that  keep  us  brave ! 

Deeming  all  men  are  born  equal, 
Only  by  high  deeds  made  best, 

They  who  strive  to  win  the  sequel, 
That  shall  crown  the  nations  bless'd ; — 

They  who  with  their  great  endeavors, 
Build  a  never-dying  name — 

They  whose  thunder-bolts  of  genius 
Wrap  this  living  age  in  flame ! 


These  are  kings  and  conquerors  glorious, 
From  the  lowliest  haunts  of  men, 

Climbing  unto  heights  victorious 
By  the  toil  of  press  and  pen ! 

These,  the  winners  of  true  knowledge, 
Strong  to  battle  for  the  right, 

From  the  workshop  and  the  college, 
Striding  full-armed  to  the  fight ! 

Blessed  be  ye  !  brawny  workers, 
In  the  mighty  fields  of  thought, 

Bless'd  your  planting  and  your  reaping. 
When  the  harvest  shall  be  brought ! 

Go  out,  victors,  late  and  early — 
Sow  the  fiery  seed  of  thought ! 

Down  by  rivers  still  and  pearly, 

Shall  your  perfect  sheaves  be  brought; 

When  the  world's  great  heart  sublimely, 
Throbs  a  full  calm  as  of  yore, 

And  beside  immortal  waters 

Angels  dwell  with  men,  once  more. 


AURELIA. 

THE  water-lilies  float  the  way 
The  tide  floweth — 

So,  to-day, 

Down  purple  memories  far  and  dim, 

My  happy  heart  doth  follow  him, 
The  way  he  goeth ! 

The  sunset's  crimson  cup,  o'erfull, 
Stains  the  blue  river 
Beautiful ! 

So  is  my  nature's  high  divine, 
In  his  rare  nature's  costly  wine, 
Rose-tinged  forever ! 


HATTIE   TYNG. 


THE  parents  of  Hattie  Tyng  were  both  primitive  New  Englanders — her  father  a 
clergyman,  and  professor  in  one  of  the  academies  in  that  section.  Hattie  was  born  at 
West  Mills,  Maine,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  January,  1841.  She  is  self-educated — de 
voting  her  time  and  energies  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  as  she  had  opportunity, 
which  resulted  in  a  thorough  English  education,  with  several  modern  languages.  Her 
particular  forte  seems  to  be  the  sense  of  comparison — readily  perceiving  the  resem 
blances  in  the  great  activities  and  events  of  individual  or  national  experiences,  which 
her  fine  genius  expresses  in  graphic  and  beautiful  forms  and  imagery.  Her  produc 
tions  have  appeared  in  the  Home  Journal,  Columbia  (S.  C.)  Courant,  the  Milwaukee 
and  Chicago  papers,  with  some  others.  Miss  Tyng  is  a  popular  teacher  in  the  High 
School  in  the  village  of  her  residence,  Columbus,  Wisconsin. 


RUINS. 

OVER  sea  and  over  desert, 

Wand'ring  many  a  weary  mile, 
By  the  lordly  banks  of  Ganges — 

By  the  softly  flowing  Nile  ; 
Travelers  wander,  seeking  ever 

Ruins  which  may  tales  unfold, 
Of  the  rude,  barbaric  splendor 

Of  the  mystic  days  of  old. 

And  they  watch  with  straining  vision- 
Watch  as  pilgrims  at  a  shrine — 

For  a  glimpse  of  those  half-hidden 
Castled  crags  along  the  Rhine. 

O'er  all  ancient  lands  they  wander, 
Ever  with  a  new  delight, 

Seeking  ruins  which  are  sacred 
To  their  wonder-loving  sight. 

But  they  know  not  that  around  them, 
Close  at  home,  are  ruins  spread, 


Strange  as  those  that  glimpses  give  them 

Of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 
Crumbling  fane  or  fallen  turret, 

Ruined  mosque  or  minaret, 
Teaches  not  the  solemn  lesson, 

Which  we  learn  but  to  forget. 

Every  where  around  are  scattered 

Ruined  lives  and  broken  hearts, 
Wrecks  of  manhood  far  more  shattered 

Than  these  fragments  of  lost  arts. 
And  we  need  not  go  to  seek  them 

Far  from  our  own  native  land, 
For,  unnoted  and  forsaken, 

Near  us  many  ruins  stand. 

But  when  eyes  and  hearts  are  heavy 

Gazing  on  them  comes  the  thought, 
That,  though  corniced  aisle  and  column, 

Soon  shall  crumble  into  naught, 
Still  these  darkened  human  ruins, 

All  rebuilt  shall  one  day  stand, 
Beauteous  fanes  and  noble  structures, 

Within  God's  most  glorious  land. 
686  ) 


ELLA   CALDWELL. 


THE  poems  of  Miss  Caldwell  have  been  mostly  contributions  to  the  Louisville  (Ky.) 
Democrat,  and  have  been  extensively  copied  by  the  newspapers  throughout  the  coun 
try.  Her  nom  de  plume,  "  Leila,"  has  become  familiar  as  household  words.  Ella 
Caldwell  was  born  in  the  city  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  on  the  sixteenth  of  April, 
1842.  Her  father,  James  G.  Caldwell,  shortly  afterward  removed  to  Jefferson ville, 
Indiana,  where  he  is  a  merchant.  Fortunately  the  circumstances  of  Miss  Caldwell's 
parents  enabled  them  to  give  their  daughter  an  education  at  home,  and  culture  and 
accomplishments  upon  a  broad  and  firm  basis.  She  resides  at  home,  surrounded  by 
affectionate  relations,  an  admiring  and  appreciative  circle  of  select  friends,  and  all 
that  would  seem  to  render  hers  the  life  of  the  poet.  Miss  Caldwell's  poems  are  of 
the  school  of  the  affections,  but  there  is  a  growing  strength  and  higher  purpose  per 
ceptible  in  her  later  efforts,  though  all  are  marked  by  a  lingering  sweetness  of  rhythm, 
a  fine  poetic  fancy,  not  more  surprising  than  delightful  to  find  in  the  writings  of  one 
so  young.  Her  poetry  frequently  reaches  the  tenderest  pathos,  and  sometimes  rises 
to  a  "  fine  frenzy,"  but  is  always  sweetly  rhythmical. 


JUDGE  NOT. 

JUDGE  not,  judge  not!  Ye  may  not  know 

The  strength  of  passion's  power; 
Remember  that  an  angel  -fell 

In  Eden's  sinless  bower ; 
And  still  the  tempter's  siren  voice, 

In  accents  soft  and  sweet, 
Might  lure  a  soul  as  pure  as  light 

To  worship  at  his  feet. 

Judge  not,  judge  not !  The  erring  heart, 

Though  dirn'd  and  stained  by  sin — 
Though  lost  to  every  good  without — 

Has  God's  pure  light  within. 
Judge  not,  judge  not !  untempted  one  ; 

Stand  not  aloof,  apart — 
Remember  that  God's  image  lives 

In  every  human  heart ! 


Judge   not,  judge    not!    Although    these 
sins 

May  be  as  dark  as  night, 
They  may  have  bravely  warred,  yet  fell 

A  victim  in  the  fight. 
Judge  not !  The  marshaled  hosts  of  sin 

Are  fierce,  and  dark,  and  bold ; 
And  yet  full  many  a  gentle  lamb 

Has  wandered  to  their  fold. 

Judge  not,  judge  not !  or  coldly  pass 

A  fallen  brother  by  ; 
A  smile  from  virtue  would  be  like 

A  beacon  light  on  high. 
Judge    not,  judge    not !    Our    barks    are 
all 

Upon  the  same  sea  cast ; 
Some  sink  amid  the  angry  waves, 

Some  reach  the  shore  at  last ! 


(687) 


LIZZIE   G.  BEEBE. 


LIZZIE  G.  BEEBE  was  born,  in  1842,  at  Hartford,  Trumbull  county,  Ohio,  where 
she  still  resides.  Her  poetry  has  appeared  chiefly  in  the  Ohio  Farmer,  and  has  a 
"  tender  grace  "  and  pensive  sweetness  of  its  own.  The  two  little  poems  that  follow, 
favorably  illustrate  the  peculiarities  of  her  taste  and  manner. 


DAY'S  DEPARTURE. 

On  !  bright  and  glorious  was  the  hand 

That  slowly  led  away, 
Through  the  gemmed  doorway  of  the  West, 

The  lingering,  blushing  Day. 

They  met  upon  the  threshold — 
Bright  Day  and  dewy  Night — 

And  Day  gave  to  her  sister's  care 
The  earth  so  green  and  bright. 

"  Sing  gently,  oh  !  my  sister  Night, 

Thy  soothing  song  of  rest ; 
Shadow  it  with  thy  curtains  dim, 

And  fold  it  to  thy  breast. 

u  Breathe  gently  on  the  waving  trees, 

The  wild  bird  in  its  nest, 
And  soothe  the  weary,  restless  child, 

Upon  its  mother's  breast. 

"  Kiss  all  the  tender,  meek-eyed  flowers 

That  in  thy  shadows  weep ; 
Oh !  with  thy  softest  murmurs  hush 

My  darling  ones  asleep. 

"  And  the  calm  star-eyes  will  look  down 
With  their  pure  and  dreamy  light, 

To  see  how  peacefully  the  earth 
Sleeps  in  thy  arms,  oh  Night ! " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OLD  ELM-TREE. 

STEAL  gently,  sunshine,  through  its  grace 
ful  boughs, 

And  paint  its  shadow  as  ye  did  of  yore, 
And  I  will  dream  a  little  fairy  form 

Is  playing  still  beside  the  cottage  door. 

Float   softly,  breezes,  'mid  the  trembling 

leaves, 

And  make  the  shadows  flicker,  as  of  old ; 
And  I  will  dream  my  fingers  wander  still, 
With  soft  caresses,  through  her  curls  of 
gold. 

But  ah !  the  sunshine  comes  not  at  my  call ; 

To  my  lone  heart  there  comes  no  shad 
owy  trace 
Of  the  bright  head,  all  golden  with  its  curls, 

Of  the  sweet  voice,  and  the  lost  angel  face. 

Beneath  the  long  and  waving  blades  of  grass, 
They  laid  the  sunshine  of  my  life  away; 

For  as  the  shadow  rests  upon  her  grave, 
So  lies  a  shadow  on  my  heart  to-day. 

And  yet,  I  know,  my  darling  has  but  gone 
To  the  bright  realm  beyond  death's  cold 

dark  sea ; 
But  my  poor  heart  will  feel  that  here  she 

sleeps, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Old  Elm-tree. 


(  688  ) 


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